NICOLE
The date glows on my phone screen, a cruel little reminder. December 13th. Two days. It's been two full days.
I'm standing in the bathroom, the lights too bright, too harsh. They expose everything. I lean in, my hands gripping the cold marble of the sink, and force myself to look at my reflection.
I barely recognize the woman staring back.
There are purplish, bruised-looking bags under my eyes, so dark they look like smudges of charcoal. The skin is puffy and thin. My eyes themselves are bloodshot, the whites veined with red from crying and… from nothing. From just staring. My hair is a wild, unbrushed cloud around my shoulders. I look hollowed out. Haunted.
My phone is in my hand, a dead, useless brick. I've lost count of the calls. After the first few hundred, the numbers just blurred into a meaningless, frantic ritual. Call. Voicemail. End call. Repeat. I've reached one thousand. Maybe more. It doesn't matter.
