Zee.
The sunlight seeped through the cracks in Denver’s blinds, spilling soft and golden across the room. It was supposed to feel warm, comforting—but it felt like a cruel lie.
Because nothing about me felt warm.
I sat on the edge of the couch, arms wrapped tightly around myself, like I was trying to hold something inside—or maybe keep something out. The line between the two blurred until I wasn’t sure anymore.
I was wearing Denver’s shirt—it hung loosely on me—but my skin still felt foreign. I had already taken two showers, scrubbing harder than usual, trying to wash away the heaviness that clung to me like a shadow. But it wasn’t dirt or sweat that I wanted to rinse off.
It was something worse.
The memories drifted in and out, jagged and flashing: the dimly lit room, faces hidden b
