But my mouth won’t work.
So instead, I close my eyes and drift under, letting the quiet swallow me whole.
Chapter 16
Brittany
The Past-Age 21
I woke up feeling… empty.
Not the kind of empty that comes after a bad dream, where you roll over and pull the covers tighter. No, this was the kind of empty that sat in my chest like a lead weight, making it hard to breathe, hard to move.
The sunlight slashed through the blinds, pale gold stripes cutting across the bed, the silk sheets tangled around my legs. My mouth was dry. My head throbbed at the temples, a dull, pulsing ache. I rubbed at my eyes with the back of my hand, fingers brushing over mascara streaks smudged down my cheeks.
On the nightstand: an empty wine glass tipped on its side, a lipstick-stained cigarette in a crystal ashtray, my phone face-down with dozens of missed notifications lighting up the screen.
I exhaled, slow and shaky.
Twenty-one. I was twenty-one now. A legal adult. A woman.
But all I felt was… nothing.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my knees knocking together. My toes curled against the cold marble floor. I caught sight of myself in the mirror across the room — hair a tangled mess, cheeks hollow, skin pale with a faint yellow undertone. My pajama top hung off one shoulder, the fabric sagging on my thin frame.
I heard the knock on the door, faint at first.
“Britanny?” My mother’s voice — light, controlled, sugar-laced poison. “Britanny, darling, can we come in?”
I didn’t answer. I never answered.
The door opened anyway.
Mom swept in first, a silk robe cinched tightly at her waist, diamond studs in her ears, her blonde hair pinned back in an elegant twist. Not a strand out of place, even first thing in the morning. Behind her, my father hovered, tall and quiet, his shoulders stiff in a pressed white shirt.
“Britanny,” Mom cooed, smoothing her hands over her robe as if she were on camera. “Honey, we need to talk.”
I didn’t move.
Dad cleared his throat. “Brit, your mother’s right. We… we’re worried.”
I let out a dry laugh. “You’re worried?” My voice cracked, rasping from too many late nights and too many cigarettes. “Now you’re worried?”
Mom’s lips tightened. “Enough, Britanny. This can’t go on. You need space, you need… a change.”
Dad shifted, stuffing his hands into his pockets, glancing at the floor. “We’re getting you a condo.”
My breath caught. “You’re kicking me out.”
“It’s not like that,” Dad mumbled. “You’re an adult now. You need to learn responsibility.”
Mom folded her arms, a thin smile on her lips. “You’ll thank us someday, darling. This… phase… can’t last forever.”
And just like that, they were gone.
I barely remembered packing. A couple of duffel bags, my cosmetics, clothes still on hangers. The condo was waiting — sleek, white, cold. The kind of place you see in magazines, not the kind you feel at home in.
The first night, I wandered the rooms barefoot, trailing my fingers along the spotless counters, the glass coffee table. Everything smelled like fresh paint and money. I curled up on the leather sofa and watched old cartoons on mute, the bright colors flickering across the walls.
