Sydney
Maeve’s room smelled like what I imagined pixie dust would smell like.
It was large, soft yellow everywhere—the walls, the ceiling, the rugs, her duvet…even her stationaries.
Just not her clothes.
The first few times I stopped by her house, it felt like walking into some kind of aesthetic explosion.
But today, I didn’t care.
I walked into her room to escape—something I kept telling myself.
That maybe if I stayed away long enough—if Maeve saw even a fraction of how twisted my stomach felt, maybe she’d let me hide here for one night.
I didn’t need to be home to know what it looked like.
Mom wasn’t going to be there. She’d left her cards for Brooklyn and me. And Brooklyn? She’d definitely go all out
She’d been waiting for this.
And then there was me. Trying to avoid own ha
