My chest squeezed. My fingers dug into the bunny’s fur.
We understood each other.
I crawled up beside her, curling my knees under me like a little kid. “I hate the mirror. Do you?”
Corinne looked away sharply, her throat working. “Yeah.”
I reached out, patting her knee lightly. “Me too.”
For a moment, we just sat there, two broken girls in a lavender room, surrounded by stuffed animals and ghosts.
---
That night was worse.
When the nurses turned off the lights, the darkness pressed in hard.
I heard her breathing on the other bed, soft and shaky.
I buried my face in my bunny, rocking slowly. My body felt like it was floating outside itself. My stomach twisted painfully. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the panic crawled up my throat like ivy.
I whimpered.
I bit down on the sleeve of my pajama top, muffling the sound.
And then—her voice.
“Brittany?”
I froze.
“Are you okay?” Corinne whispered.
I wanted to tell her yes. I wanted to tell her I was fine, that I was always fine.
But the words that tumbled out were small and broken.
“I’m scared.”
The silence stretched. I thought maybe she’d gone to sleep. Maybe she’d pretend she hadn’t heard.
But then—I heard the soft rustle of blankets.
A moment later, I felt the edge of my bed dip slightly.
Corinne sat beside me, tentative, unsure.
“I get scared too,” she murmured.
My heart thudded painfully.
I shifted just enough to peek at her, my eyes wide in the dark.
She offered a tiny smile. “You’re not the only one.”
I pressed my bunny tighter to my chest. “The shadows talk sometimes.”
Her breath hitched. “What do they say?”
