You can’t outrun something that lives under your skin.
The steam rising from my teacup was the only thing tethering me to the present.
I stared at it like it held answers. Or maybe I just wanted it to. My fingers curled around the porcelain, knuckles white. Grip too tight. Too desperate.
I could feel them watching me; Selene and Lena. Not openly, not rudely, but with that soft, hovering concern that made your skin itch.
Lena was mid-argument with the seamstress again, animated and dramatic, waving a bolt of fabric in the air like it had personally offended her.
The poor woman; grey-haired, pin-cushion in wrist, and clinging to the last thread of her patience, looked like she was seriously considering faking a stroke just to escape.
Normally, I’d chime in.
Make a jab about Jul
