Bree
“Why are you putting makeup on me?” I asked Rachel, who stood humming in front of me, her focus sharp as she leaned closer. “I’m about to go running, and I’ll be a sweating, panting mess. It won’t matter if I’m wearing mascara.”
A mischievous smile bloomed across her lips. “I know, silly,” she huffed, brushing a curl behind her ear. “But even if running kills you, you might as well look good doing it.”
Her teasing was light, but there was warmth in it too—a kind of care that wrapped around me and reminded me I wasn’t alone anymore. Rachel hadn’t forced me to talk about anything last night. She hadn’t asked questions, hadn’t cornered me, hadn’t made me feel like a confession was owed. All she’d said when I came back inside was, “If you need to talk about it, I’ve got two ears more t
