"Every word echoed like a blade."
The devastating weight of Eli's confession—I love you still—had followed Silver into the Gothic darkness of her tower room like a ghost that refused to be exorcised, settling into every corner of the medieval space with the persistence of winter cold that no amount of heating could chase away. The revelation had shattered her carefully maintained emotional equilibrium so completely that even the familiar ritual of preparing for sleep felt impossible to navigate.
The institutional ceiling above her narrow bed was nothing but shadow and hairline cracks that mapped the age of Yale's Gothic architecture, but Silver found herself unable to look away from the ancient plaster surface. Every time she closed her eyes, Eli's written words cut back through her consciousness like sharpened steel, each phrase carrying enough force to slice through whatever psychological defenses she'd been attempting to maintain since reading his letter.
I love you still.
