She woke up with puffy eyes and a dull ache behind them, the kind that came after crying yourself hollow. The morning light slipped in through the curtains, soft and pale, brushing against her face like a quiet apology. Violetta lay still for a few seconds, breathing slowly, waiting for the familiar heaviness to return—the crushing hopelessness, the self-loathing, the endless why me? But it didn’t. There was sadness, yes, and a faint soreness in her chest, but it felt… lighter. As if someone had gently lifted a weight off her shoulders during the night. She frowned slightly, confused by the unfamiliar calm, then reached for her phone on the bedside table out of habit. The screen lit up. Draven. Her heart gave a small, traitorous jump. There were several messages from him, stacked one after another, sent at different hours of the night and early morning. Her lips curved before she could stop them. She opened the chat, her thumb suddenly gentle, almost reverent. "I couldn’t
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