Zixuan crouched on the edge of the bed, knees drawn tightly to her chest, as though she could make herself smaller than she already felt. The room was cold, but not from the air—it was the kind of cold that came from something invisible cracking inside her.
She reached blindly for something, anything, to cover herself with, and her fingers found the edge of the blanket—the only thing within reach when Casper stormed out moments ago, his silence louder than any insult he could have thrown.
She pulled the fabric around her shoulders like a shield, though it was far too thin to protect her from what had already broken open inside. It smelled faintly of him—of their shared space, of a familiarity now tainted.
Her body trembled, not from shame exactly, and not entirely from sorrow, but from a hollowing dissonance she could not name.
