This was ridiculous.
It was work.
It was just work.
Her chest didn’t believe her.
She stopped at the counter and braced her palms against the surface, breathing hard, trying to force her pulse to slow.
Get it together.
Why did she care this much?
Why did it matter that Tilly laughed with someone else?
Why did it hurt that Tilly couldn’t look at her?
Why did the whole day feel like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing?
She reached for her phone on the counter.
Her thumb hovered over Alana’s name.
For one tiny second, Savannah imagined it.
Her sister picking up.
Asking what was wrong.
Telling her to breathe.
Telling her to come home for the weekend.
And then reality hit just as fast.
Alana wouldn’t get it.
She would not understand the storm in Savannah’s chest.
She would tell Savannah to focus on work, or to give it time, or that it wasn’t a big deal.
She couldn’t talk about this without sounding unhinged.
Savannah locked her phone and tossed it onto the couch like it had offended her.
Her chest tightened again. She pressed a hand over her sternum like she could hold herself together by force alone.
But her eyes burned.
And she couldn’t stop the hollow ache tearing through her.
She slid down the side of the counter until she was sitting on the floor, legs pulled in, forehead pressed to her knees.
She didn’t cry.
Not really.
Just a few hot, angry tears she wiped away fast enough to pretend they never fell.
