The girl in the mirror is dead.
I watch her reflection in the car window, the way her wide and haunted eyes stare back at me. She is someone I used to be. Someone soft. Someone people could hurt and laugh at and forget the next day like she never mattered.
But I will not be her anymore.
I wrap Judas's jacket tighter around myself, as if it can shield me from the memory of today. The weight of humiliation still clings to my skin like a second layer. I can still feel everything like smoke in the back of my mind.
And worst of all, I can still see him.
Massimo Bianchi standing at the entrance with that infuriatingly unreadable expression. Not laughing. Not stopping it, either.
I dig my nails into my palm. I will never see him again. Never.
But the thought isn't enough. The anger isn't e
