Stella
The next morning arrived like a punishment.
I woke to a dull ache behind my eyes and the kind of exhaustion that didn't belong to sleep deprivation alone.
For a few moments, I stared at the canopy above my bed and tried to pretend I didn't remember.
The shards of last night drifted back anyway. The words that were said. The moment I'd lost control of my composure and watched it shatter in front of people who had no business witnessing me unravel.
And then—worse than the memory—came the aftermath.
The silence in the room wasn't empty.
It was guarded.
I could feel it before I even turned my head: the careful quiet of people who were trying not to startle me. The soft shuffle of footsteps. The low murmur of voices held intentionally distant.
A warm hand rested on my forearm.
