Sloane’s POV
The scent of lemon floor cleaner and stale paper hangs heavy in the library, but none of it reaches me. Next to me, Natasha is using a highlighter to make her pointers.
My textbook has been open to page 142 for forty-five minutes. The words, rows of neat, black text detailing administrative policy, blur into an illegible smear every time I try to force my eyes across the line.
Exams are in two days. Two days. I should be panicking about my grades, highlighting key terms, or running flashcards until my thumbs go numb. Instead, my brain is trapped somewhere else entirely.
Pink satin. Frayed ribbons. The worn wood of a studio floor from my past.
Recently, my mind keeps drifting back into the dark corners I spent years trying to seal shut. It’s like the impact cracked somethi
