TO DENY A LUNA
My reflection stared back at me with silent accusation, and suddenly, nothing made sense.
Snatching a washcloth, I begin scrubbing my face furiously. Despite how bad it looks, there are no bruises, no cuts, no swelling. “It’s probably just another nosebleed,” I mumble. They’ve been happening more and more often lately, especially after seeing him. Something always worsens after we cross paths—migraines, bleeding, something.
I blink, leaning in closer to inspect the reflection. My stomach twists when I spot the whites of my eyes—no longer white, but clouded with a deep red hue. “What on earth?” I whisper, horrified.
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