Angie Faith Pov ^hot^ -

And that Angie is enough.

I dry my face with a towel that smells like lavender, not like the stale champagne and smoke clinging to my dress from last night’s gala. I pad barefoot across the cold floor, leaving the bright, harsh truth of the bathroom behind. angie faith pov

I close my eyes.

The bathroom light is too bright. It always is at this hour. It hums, a low, electric lie that promises warmth but only exposes the cracks in the tile and the truth under my eyes. And that Angie is enough

I turn the faucet. Cold water floods my cupped hands. I splash it on my face, not to wake up—I’ve been awake for three days, running on coffee and anxiety—but to feel something real. The shock of the cold is a sharp, clean note in a symphony of noise. I close my eyes