I wake up to sunlight bleeding through sheer curtains I regret having. It’s too soft and golden, too gentle for the war waging inside me.
My throat is dry and my body aches. It doesn’t justify the fact why my heart feels like it’s caged and clawing. And it’s downright raging how my first morning thought is Massimo Bianchi.
Of all the things I could think of, my mind decides to offer me him, on a silver platter. Again. As if he’s my favourite poison. There’s a pit in my stomach and it’s not hunger. It’s dread, shame and embarrassment I endure last night. Strangely, with it, comes another segment I am trying not to acknowledge.
The silence in my room is haunting and suddenly everything is too clean. It doesn’t match the mess in my head.
I sit up slowly, and wince at the soreness as if I’
