Dahlia

The tea has gone cold. It sits untouched beside me on the windowsill, steam long gone. I hold the cup anyway, palms wrapped around it like it’s something steady. Something warm. It’s not.

I haven’t spoken in hours. Junie doesn’t push. She slips in beside me, matching my silence like she’s tuning herself to my frequency.

We don’t talk. We just stare into the wall. Depresso macchiato mood. Junie’s fingers are drumming against her thighs.

Then she ...