I head down for dinner just before six o’clock, having spent the majority of my day laying in my bed, staring at the ceiling. But unlike the last time I did that, this day’s staring was fueled by melancholy, not rage, which is…way worse. Because while anger makes me seek solutions and want to tear the world to pieces, being sad and worried just feels…hopeless.
I’m still sighing as I push open the door to the kitchen, and it only gets worse when I realize that my cozy sweater and jeans were apparently not the correct attire for the evening. Natalia sweeps towards the patio carrying a basket of bread and wearing a flowing floral dress with not a speck of pasta sauce on it, despite cooking all afternoon. She sees me and immediately smirks, running her eyes over me like the unkempt ragamuffin
