(Clara)
By the time I got home that evening, my brain felt like it had been squeezed dry.
The first in-course test results had followed me around all day like a shadow. Everywhere I turned, someone was talking about rankings, scores, percentages, who moved up, who slipped down.
It was exhausting.
I dropped my bag beside the couch and kicked off my shoes with a tired groan.
“Anna?” I called out.
“In the kitchen trying not to burn your dinner!” she shouted back.
I smiled despite myself and walked toward the kitchen.
Anna stood over the stove in oversized shorts and one of my old shirts, wooden spoon in hand while music blasted softly from her phone on the counter.
“You cook now?” I asked, leaning against the doorway.
She gasped dramatically. “Excuse you. I’ve always cooked.”
“You
