Heather sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers tapping rhythmically against her lap as though each tap tried to push away the chaos still spiraling inside her.
She had been waiting far too long. Somehow, the sound of her own anxiety echoed loudest in the quiet of the room.
He had taken his time tonight—unusually long in the shower. She could almost believe it was deliberate.
That he was dragging it out on purpose, forcing her to wait, to simmer.
Her thoughts tumbled over each other again, recklessly:
Don't let this become a war. He's not a problem if you stop letting him be one.
She rolled her eyes at herself.
That's exactly the kind of thing someone tells themselves right before they scream into a pillow.
She shifted, searching for comfort that wouldn't come.
Then she saw herself in the mirror—yes, that frown again, deeper now, like a permanent crease of stress.
Great. Angry and old.
