She sat uninvited.
The booth across from me had been empty—a small mercy, a pocket of silence I had claimed with my tray and my two burgers and my fragile, newborn anonymity. I was no one here. Just a woman in a blue gown, hood pulled low, chewing slowly, existing inside the warm salt smell of grease and possibility.
Then she slid into it.
Smiling like she gave a damn about me.
"I actually missed you."
Her voice was the same. That warm, honeyed tone that used to make me believe I was safe. That used to make me believe I had a sister.
"I knew something was wrong. The police claimed you drowned yourself in the prison. Fuck—"
Her hand flew to her mouth. Tears were already pouring from her eyes, mascara smudging, lashes clumping. Real tears. Bodies do what bodies do.
"You're okay. You're actually okay. I miss you so much."
Why is she crying?
She doesn't care a bit about me.
