CHEYENNE
I prepare like it is war.
Not because I expect blood, but because I understand that rooms can cut deeper than claws when everyone inside them is holding a blade made of words and restraint. I wake before dawn without needing an alarm, the air in my room heavy and still, and I lie there for a moment staring at the ceiling while Layla watches with me, her presence alert and steady beneath my ribs.
This is not a conversation, she says.
“No,” I answer silently. “It’s positioning.”
I shower longer than usual, letting the water run hot over my shoulders and down my spine, standing still while steam fills the room and blurs the edges of the mirror. I wash carefully and rinse twice, scrubbing my skin until it tingles faintly, as if sensation might drown out the undercurrent of antici
