Viola McCoy
It’s been twenty-four days since everything fell apart. Twenty-four mornings where I wake up in Amirah’s guest room and remember I’m not whole anymore.
I haven’t written a single word.
Not a sentence.
Not even a line of poetry on the back of a napkin. My notebooks sit untouched in a box by the closet. The cursor in my email drafts blinks like a pulse I no longer have the energy to follow.
Adrian is in jail.
And the worst part is—I still think about how brilliant his mind was. How his advice shaped the best parts of my book. How he saw me when I felt invisible. How he killed someone.
I close my eyes and try not to drown in the contradiction.
And then there’s Logan.
He’s come by every single day. Same time. Same quiet knock. Same pleading voice just beyond the threshold, begging Amirah to convince me to come outside. He leaves flowers. Letters. Food I’m not hungry for.
But I haven’t opened the door once.
I can’t.
I don’t want to look into those eyes and wonder how long he w
