She had stopped crying.
At least, that's what it looked like.
By the time we ended up sprawled back on my bed, the lights dimmed, my laptop perched on a pillow with some random movie playing, it was as if nothing had happened. Celestia was curled against me, a bowl of popcorn in her lap—homemade, of course, because apparently microwave bags were an insult to her standards.
To anyone else, she looked fine. Perfectly fine. Smiling at the screen, tossing kernels into her mouth, occasionally missing on purpose just to laugh at herself. But me? I couldn't stop thinking about how she'd looked minutes ago—her face blotchy, her voice shaky, her whole world cracking through her words.
So while she watched the movie, I… watched her.
"Can you believe this guy?" she suddenly said, eyes widening at whatever train wreck was happening on screen. She pointed with her popcorn. "Like, hello? Red flag. Huge red flag. If a guy ever pulled that on me—"
