Emma:
The silence in the room is a physical presence, a heavy blanket that suffocates. The adrenaline that had fueled my rage drains away, leaving a cold, hollow ache in its place. I’m still on the floor, my back pressed against the door, but the solid wood no longer feels like a shield. It feels like a barrier, trapping me in the wreckage of my own life. The broken lamp on the floor isn’t just a casualty of a fight; it’s a monument to a friendship that was always a lie. My gaze drifts across the room, to the empty bed across from mine. The neatly folded comforter, the stack of textbooks on her nightstand. It all looks so normal, so benign. But now I see it for what it is: the curated set dressing of a sociopath. She sat right there, on my bed, and watched me break. She put her arms aroun
