For What Still Burns
I let the others fill the air, laughing when I’m supposed to, adding the occasional sarcastic quip, nodding like I’m still tuned in.
Elena’s sprawled across the couch in a sleep mask pushed up onto her forehead, sipping rosehip tea like a debutante in a post-crisis spiral. Karissah, meanwhile, is upside down on the loveseat, legs dangling over the armrest, licking Nutella off a spoon like it's her birth right.
“I swear to God,” Karissah says, waving the spoon, “Mrs. Livingstone tried to convince me I needed collagen implants. Like... at what point did collagen become an emergency?”
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