STELLA
Morning arrives too soon.
I don’t remember sleeping, only closing my eyes and opening them again to find the gray light of dawn stretching thin across the ceiling. My body feels heavy, not from rest but from the weight of what waits for me. The air in my room is stale, unmoving, as though it already knows I don’t belong here anymore.
I move slowly, methodically, as if dragging out the inevitable will change anything. My suitcase waits where I left it, mouth gaping, half-fed with clothes and pieces of my life. I zip it shut with a final pull, the sound sharp in the stillness.
The dress they gave me for the flight lies across a chair: dark, plain, practical. Nothing like the gowns I’ve worn before. No lace, no silk, no shimmer. Just fabric to cover me, to send me across an ocean.
