My room was exactly how I’d left it. Small. Dim. Mine.
The bed creaked as I dropped my bag onto it. I headed straight for the bathroom, already pulling my shirt over my head as I walked. Rhea had made herself at home on my mattress, sitting cross-legged with a piece of paper in her hands.
“Look!” she said, holding up her drawing. “This is the T-Rex! I gave him fangs like a wolf.”
I peeked from the bathroom door and grinned. “He’s terrifying. You’re getting too good at this.”
“I know,” she beamed.
While I showered, she kept talking—bouncing between her field trip stories, her opinion on cafeteria pizza (gross), and which classmate she thought might secretly be a witch.
I listened. Mostly. Threw in a “yeah?” and “no way” when needed.
She didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care—that I was
