ASHLEY
The ceiling’s got a crack in it. Funny how I never noticed it before, but now I’ve traced it a hundred times with my eyes until it feels carved into my skull.
It looks like a scar.
Perfect. Fitting.
My phone’s on the floor. Has been since this morning when I threw it because I don’t really want to look into it. Because if I pick it up, I know exactly what’ll happen:
I’ll open it.
I’ll stare at the empty notifications.
I’ll pray to a god I don’t even f*****g believe in for his name to pop up.
And when it doesn’t, I’ll check his socials anyway, scrolling like a ghost, looking for signs he’s miserable too.
Pathetic.
I know it.
Doesn’t stop me.
I shift, blanket tangled around my legs like a trap. My hair’s a mess, sticking to my cheek, dried tear-salt crusting at the corn
