Luck has never been something I could count on. It’s always slipped through my fingers like sand, no matter how tightly I try to hold on to it. And just when I think maybe, just maybe, the universe might cut me a break, it loves to remind me that I’m not its favorite. My pen hovers over the page of my notebook, the ink pooling in a small dot as my thoughts swirl, heavy and restless. The library is quiet except for the soft rustle of pages turning and the occasional scrape of chairs against the worn wooden floor. It should feel peaceful, yet tension clings to me like a second skin.
Movement flickers at the edge of my vision, subtle but insistent enough to pull me from my thoughts. I glance up, and it feels as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. My chest tightens, ribs const
