Nia

The room had no clock, but my body already knew the rhythm of captivity. The stale scent of dust and perfume clung to the air, the kind that seeped into your skin until you couldn’t tell where it ended and where you began. Days felt like weeks, and silence felt like a knife pressed against my throat.

I sat on the narrow bed, knees pulled tight to my chest, my fingernails digging into the fabric of my jeans. I hated the way I was starting to count the cracks in the wall, the way I had ...