Ivy
I woke up to a blinding light seeping into my still closed eyes. “Uhh, make it go away,” I mumbled into my pillow as I turned away from the source.
“Well, considering it’s midday, I don’t think there’s a way to turn the sun off.”
My mother’s voice cuts through the sleepy haze, warm and steady, and my eyes snap open. She’s perched in one of the dark leather wingback chairs that sit near the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap, while she watches me with quiet patience.
Panic slams into me. “Midday?” I push up on my elbows, blinking at the streams of light cutting across the floor. I’ve never slept this late in my life. Not even after double shifts, not even after nights spent crying myself hollow. My body feels heavy, my muscles sluggish, as if grief has been stacking itself
