Eunice
Two months after Denver left, I stood frozen in our tiny, tile-crammed bathroom, staring down at the vanity counter.
Two bright pink lines.
The air vanished from my lungs.
The yellowed wallpaper seemed to buckle inward, pressing against my chest until I couldn't breathe.
Eighteen.
I was eighteen years old.
A sharp knock rattled the bathroom door, making me jump out of my skin.
"Eunice?" Sarah's voice called from the hallway. "You've been in there for twenty minutes. Are you okay? Did you throw up again?"
I couldn't move.
I couldn't speak.
My hands shook so violently that when I tried to swipe the plastic stick off the counter, it clattered against the porcelain sink.
The door creaked open.
Sarah stepped in, her smile instantly vanishing the moment she saw my face.
