Cyril
The title hit me like a slap but only the soft kind.
‘Princess.’
That also reminded me of Alan. That's what he called me when I was younger.
But right now as I followed him through the lobby and into the elevator, I realized I didn't feel like a princess.
I felt like a refugee.
The elevator climbed silently.
I caught my reflection in the chrome doors.
My gothic makeup was a disaster, dark streaks of mascara carving paths down my cheeks like war paint.
My white silk blouse was wrinkled, and I looked exactly like what I was: a girl whose heart had been torn out and trampled upon real bad.
Miller’s apartment was clean, sparse, and smelled of sandalwood and snow.
It was a masculine space, but it lacked the soothing peace of Alan's perfume.
Just a balcony overlooking t
