“THAT PROPHET IS FAKE , VERONICA”
SERAPHINE POV
My day was just beginning. The sun was barely peeking through misty curtains. I heaved a breath as I swung my legs off my bed. It was not the joy I needed but far more my fingers gingerly tracing the wood flooring, a movement both purposeful and absent. I was in my daily routine.
I tried to bring order and just accepted the harsh reality, “For three days, I’ve scrimped on self-care, pressed into work and routines. Not a reward to myself. This work, a tiny step. Something to the prophet.”
“Or far inside my head just pondering mysteries, I did not in careless bated breath and omit sub text too. Answering the whys? The hows? The end just stops? Them becoming loose, moving aimless and dodging responsibility.”
I gave an answer to my trains
