“Okay, thanks,” I say, pushing the door open. “I’ll start there.”
The cold hits again as I step back outside, and I glance down at the key in my hand, turning it over between my fingers before I start toward the side of the building.
Room six.
“Good one,Pea,” I mutter under my breath. “What are you, a vegetable?”
It takes me a moment to find it—the second door down, paint slightly chipped around the frame, number a little crooked. I fit the key into the lock, give it a turn, and push the door open with my shoulder.
The room is small, but it’s clean. Tidy enough that I don’t immediately question my life choices.
“Hi, Room Six,” I murmur, nudging the door shut behind me. “Let’s be friends.”
I flick the lock out of habit, then test it once. Solid.
My duffel slips from my shoulder and lands on the floor with a soft thud, and for a second, I stand there in the quiet, letting it settle around me.
No incessant phones ringing or muffled arguments seeping through office doors. No one is blowing up my phone with entirely unreasonable requests or accusations that I’m somehow failing by not anticipating every possible inconvenience in their day.
Dragging my fingers through my hair, I exhale slowly and turn in a slow circle. The heater hums quietly in the corner when I flick it on, pushing out a warmth that takes the edge off. There’s a bed, a narrow table, a chair that looks like it’s been here longer than anything else in the room, and a bathroom I’ll deal with in a minute.
I crouch down and unzip my bag, pushing it open to survey its contents. There’s not much inside. Clothing, my toiletries, and—
My hand stills.
Carefully, I lift the shoes out and set them on the edge of the bed.
Silver sparkly heels. Slightly scuffed and worn gently in the toes, but still catching the light in the same way that made them feel like magic when I was little.
My mouth curves at the memory of wobbling around the house in them, tripping over my own feet while my mom laughed warmly and warned me I’d surely break an ankle before I ever made it to any ball.
“I might’ve been a bit optimistic, girls,” I say, my thumb lightly running along the edge of the heel. “But I’ll find somewhere to wear you.”
I almost left them behind. Almost told myself it didn’t make sense to bring them—that they were too much, too impractical, too tied to something I wasn’t taking with me. I’d stood there like an idiot in front of my closet, actually debating whether sparkly silver heels were apractical life choice.
They’re not, I know that. But there was no version of this where I walked away without them. Not when these shoes had spent years hidden away, deemed silly and childish by a stepmother who only ever saw my flaws and not my dreams.
They belong with me, impractical or not. Still shimmering despite it all, stubbornly clinging to a bit of forgotten magic.
I set them down, side by side, a little more carefully than I need to, and straighten up.
“Right,” I say, clapping my hands together once. “Priorities.”
The bathroom light flicks on with a soft buzz when I push the door open. I wash my hands, then catch my reflection as I reach for the towel.
Right. That’s about what I expected. I look like I’ve been on a train for too long.
“Could be worse,” I decide, turning in the mirror to get a better look.
My hair’s a mess. Long and blonde, the ends still dyed blue in a way my stepmother used to call “unnecessarily attention-seeking,” which only made me keep it longer. It’s faded a little now, but it’s still there, stubborn as anything and rebelling against her high-society standards.
“Attention seeking,” I mutter, gently running my fingers through the blue ends.
God forbid anyone notice me for something other than obedient silence.
I splash some cold water onto my face in an attempt to wake myself up a bit more, then dry my hands and return to the main room. Reaching into my coat pocket, I tug my phone out and swipe the screen out of habit.
There’s no one I need to text and tell I made it. No one waiting on my message that I’m okay.
