Yet another part is standing in front of Timofey on trembling legs while he recounts every detail of my daily existence.
If you find the facts of your life insulting, that is your problem, not mine.
I look at my desk, which is also my side table since my apartment is too small for both. The medical bill on top of the stack has red ink stamped on the envelope.
Timofey is right: that is my problem, not his. And I have no idea how I’m going to fix it.
When Noelle and Ashley call me later, I swipe to dismiss the call and quickly text them my excuse. I slept like crap last night. I’m already on my way to bed. Talk to you tomorrow.
It’s a lie, but the moment I send the message, I realize sleep is a great idea. My eyes burn with exhaustion and sitting here spinning my mental wheels isn’t hel
