NATASHA'S POV

The walls of my bedroom used to glow with life, soft, rose-gold lights spilling over velvet curtains, the sound of slow jazz dancing between my perfume bottles and magazine covers with my face on them. That space used to hum with magic. Now it just mocked me.

The silence wasn't gentle anymore. It pressed in like a second skin, tight and suffocating.

I was curled in the corner of my bed, knees pulled to my chest, my phone in a death grip. My hand had molded to it, as if letting ...