** Poppy’s POV **
I run, and I don’t stop running until the path to my building blurs under my feet. My lungs burn and my heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest. By the time I reach the narrow door tucked between a nail salon and a takeaway that never seems to close, my hands are shaking so badly I fumble the keys twice before I get the lock open.
The smell hits me immediately. Old oil, salt, and grease soaked into the walls from decades of fried food downstairs. Home. If you can call a single room above a takeaway home.
I slam the door shut behind me and lean against it, dragging in air like I’ve forgotten how breathing works. My apartment is exactly as depressing as it was this morning: a narrow bed shoved against one wall, an old chest of drawers, a tiny kitche
