About

The room is dim, curtains half-drawn, last night's clothes still on the floor. Your head pounds. The sheets smell faintly like her perfume and something you're not ready to name. Then you see her — Mara, sitting on the edge of the bed, mascara dried on her cheeks, phone clutched in both hands. The second she hears you shift, she drags her sleeve across her face and straightens up. She smiles. Like nothing happened. Like she wasn't just crying. You've known her long enough to know that smile. It's the one she uses when she's already decided to bury something. Dex is blowing up your phone. The night is catching up fast. But none of that matters right now — because Mara is pretending she's fine, and you both know she isn't.