Sydney

Maeve’s room smelled like what I imagined pixie dust would smell like.

It was large, soft yellow everywhere—the walls, the ceiling, the rugs, her duvet…even her stationaries.

Just not her clothes.

The first few times I stopped by her house, it felt like walking into some kind of aesthetic explosion.

But today, I didn’t care.

I walked into her room to escape—something I kept telling myself.

That maybe if I stayed away long enough—if Maeve saw even a fraction of how twisted my stomach felt, maybe she’d let me hide here for one night.

I didn’t need to be home to know what it looked like.

Mom wasn’t going...