Serenya
I boarded a taxi to Elara’s apartment. My suitcase bumped against the door each time we turned, like it was complaining about the ride too. I crossed my arms and stared out the window, trying not to cry again. I had no more tears for today. None I wanted to waste on my mother’s words.
“I can’t do it,” I muttered under my breath. “She can do her dirty work herself.”
The cab turned onto Elara’s street, a quieter part of town with uneven sidewalks and tiny flowerbeds half-wilted from the heat. By the time the taxi driver pulled up in front of Elara’s apartment complex, my head was pounding and my palms were sweaty from holding the handle of my suitcase too tight. My phone buzzed in my lap, but I ignored it. Probably my mother again, or worse, a reminder of the livestreams I was now
