Diana’s POV
The phone buzzed in my hand long after I’d stopped trying to ignore it, its low hum like a silent accusation against my palm.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the green button, before finally tapping it.
“Good morning, Dad,” I whispered into the receiver, though my voice didn’t sound like mine. It was cracked. Hollow.
“Diana.” His voice came low and measured, but softer than usual. “How are you doing?”
I hesitated.
The truth pressed against my lips, the classroom, the sniffing, the dead-eyed teachers. It was all there, waiting to spill.
But I swallowed it.
“I’m fine,” I said. The lie scorched its way out like acid in my throat.
There was a pause. Then, to my utter disbelief, he said, “If you’re exhausted, take the day off. Go home. Rest.”
I blinked.
My fat
