KAIREN
The world narrowed to the cream-colored cardstock in my hand. The handwriting was hers, a graceful, looping script I'd seen on birthday cards, on notes left on my fridge, on the margins of books she'd lent me. It was a handwriting I'd loved. Now it felt like a forgery, yet it pierced me more deeply than any truth ever had.
"To my little peacock, turning 26."
The old, stupid nickname. From my first week at the K-S Continental, overwhelmed and hiding in a bathroom stall during a panic attack, trying to silence my ragged breathing.
She'd found me.
Didn't ask questions, just handed me a glass of water through the gap in the door and said, "Pretty plumage, but all that strutting must be exhausting, huh?" Later, she'd explained. Peacocks. Beautiful, burdened creatures, always having to display, never allowed to be small.
"A little peacock," she'd whispered once, smoothing my hair back from my forehead when I was sick and vulnerable. No one else had ever called me that.
