Seraphina didn't fold the clothes. She shoved them.
One after the other—shirts, jeans, the few dresses she came to Emily's dorm with.—were crumpled into her duffel bag like they held no value. Like nothing held any value anymore.
The zipper caught on a stray sleeve halfway through. She didn't pause to adjust it, just forced it shut with a harsh, grating sound. Her hands were trembling, vibrating against the fabric, but she clamped them into fists until the shaking stopped.
Behind her, Emily stood. She watched, trying to gauge the temperature of the room, trying to calculate exactly how catastrophic the damage was without asking the one question that might shatter the fragile silence.
"Seraphina…" Emily's voice was a whisper, cautious.
No response. The only sound in the cramped bedroom was the violent shuck-shuck of zippers and the frantic rustle of fabric being discarded rather than packed.
Emily took a step forward, her brow furrowed. "What are you doing?"
