Rosanna inhaled sharply.
She remained seated for a moment longer than necessary, her hands resting stiffly on her lap as she stared at the empty chair across from her—the space where Sylvia had been sitting only minutes ago. It felt colder now, as if whatever fragile warmth had existed during their conversation—if it could even be called that—had drained away the instant Sylvia stood up.
I understand, Sylvia had said.
Rosanna wasn't sure if that was true.
What she was sure of was the weight pressing down on her chest, heavier now than it had been before the apology ever left her mouth. It felt as though something had lodged itself beneath her ribs, tightening with every breath she took.
She hadn't slept properly ever since her conversation with Rome. His words had echoed relentlessly in her mind, looping over and over until there was no room left for rest.
