MICHELLE (POV)
Tuesday Night — After Steven Walked Me to My Car
By the time my bedroom door clicked shut behind me, the weight of the day slid down my spine like melted iron. I barely made it to my bed before collapsing onto it — not dramatically, just… done.
Exhausted from existing. From being perceived. From surviving a day where I felt like the main character of a show I absolutely did not audition for.
The house was quiet — that soft December chill drifting through the slightly cracked window, the heater humming like it was trying its best, the warm orange glow of my lamp making everything look gentler than it actually was. Like my room was staging an intervention: Sweetie, breathe. You survived.
My phone sat on my lap.
I stared at it.
I did not want to look.
Every cell in my body begged me not to open the Campus Files app. But apparently muscle memory is stronger than trauma, because my thumb was already drifting toward the icon like a moth toward a very stupid flame.
