ASHTON
The cell is small with gray walls. The cot is a slab of metal with a thin mattress, but my claustrophobia doesn't come from the room; it comes from my own thoughts.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. Instead of the peeling paint, I see my family, and their faces crumpled with worry over my incarceration.
I also see Demi. I see her face when she said she didn't want to remember. The way her voice trembled even when her words didn't. The way her hand lingered on my chest before she walked away. That look—the look of someone already grieving me while I was still standing in front of her—burns deeper than these walls ever could.
