The morning began with leaden heaviness.
The alarm's ringing cut through the room like a knife, but she didn't move.
The sound passed by her like water on glass.
Instead of getting up, she pulled the blanket tighter around herself, staring at the wall as if she could find answers there.
The first image that forced its way into her consciousness was the same stab in her heart: his face, his lips – on Vanessa's.
The thought alone was enough to take her breath away.
Her stomach clenched. It wasn't hunger that woke her, but pain.
The humming from downstairs – dishes clinking, the dull ticking of the kitchen clock, her mother's voice – sounded distant, as if from another life.
"Breakfast is ready!" her mother called upstairs.
She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting, as if the world would disappear if she stayed still enough.
"Not hungry!" she finally called back, louder than she intended. Her voice broke, one tone too many, too sharp.
A silence followed. Footsteps moved away.
