Rose's POV I collapsed against the cool marble sink, gripping the edge so hard my knuckles turned bone-white and my nails scraped faint, desperate lines into the polished stone. Nails bit into my palms like a cruel mockery of the scorching heat still radiating from my core, but I clung to it anyway, as if letting go would make the entire morning—and the public spectacle that followed—swallow me whole. Hot, ugly tears poured down my face in torrents, streaking through the remnants of morning mascara and leaving black, muddy rivers down my flushed, blotchy cheeks. Great, heaving sobs tore from my throat, raw and broken, each one echoing off the pristine white tiles of the empty washroom like accusations I couldn’t escape. The sound bounced back at me—ugly, pathetic, *weak*—amplifying the shame until it felt like the walls themselves were closing in, laughing along with the cafeteria crowd.The mirror above the sink showed a complete wreck staring back at me, and I couldn’t look away
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