LENA
By the time I made it to the kitchen, I was already sweating—though the morning sun filtering through the wide windows wasn't to blame. My skin felt too warm, too aware, like every molecule of air was flirting with my nerves. The fabric of my pajama shorts felt suddenly scratchy, my tank top too clingy. I tugged at the neckline and sighed.
"Someone looks like they just woke up from a fever dream," Sienna called out cheerfully from the stove, flipping something buttery on the skillet. Her hair was in a high, messy bun, and she was barefoot, dancing slightly to music playing faintly from the phone on the counter.
I groaned and dragged myself to the kitchen island, collapsing onto a stool with all the grace of a tranquilized deer. "Why do I feel like I ran a marathon in my sleep? Everything's sore. My brain is soup. My soup has anxiety."
