Madelyn
I stayed in the hotel room longer than I planned, mostly because leaving the bed felt like an effort. The sheets were rumpled from too many restless turns, the curtains half drawn, letting in a dull city light that made everything look muted. My laptop sat open on the desk, screen still glowing from the last email I sent, and an empty room service tray was pushed to the side like an afterthought.
I had been surviving on room service for days. Coffee delivered too early. Sandwiches I barely finished. Meals eaten while typing, while reading, while pretending I was somewhere else. The staff already recognized my face. One of them smiled when he knocked, like it was a familiar routine.
I shifted my laptop closer and adjusted my position, answering messages, joining calls with my cam
