POV: Zina
The kitchen felt quieter than it had moments ago, though the silence was far from comforting. My gaze lingered on the closed door, the echo of Trina's heels against the floor replaying in my mind like a haunting melody. I should have felt victorious—watching her crumble under the weight of my words should've been satisfying. But as I stood there, the adrenaline ebbed, replaced by a hollow exhaustion that pressed on my chest.
I sank into the nearest chair, rubbing my temples. The fight had drained me more than I cared to admit.
From the corner of my eye, I caught the tea kettle on the stove. The sight of it brought a sliver of comfort, so I busied myself making tea. As the water boiled, the steam curling upward, my thoughts wandered to a time long before Trina and her perfectly curated chaos.
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