As Zaya flopped onto her bed, her damp hair fanning out like an ink stain against the pillow, her towel hung precariously over her shoulders, clinging to her like a fragile barrier.
The dim glow of the bedside lamp cast her in a soft, golden hue, and for a moment, I hesitated, the confident words teetering on the edge of my tongue. But then they tumbled out, unbidden yet resolute.
"I knew you didn't hate me."
Her head snapped up as if my voice had physically struck her. Her sharp eyes pierced through the semi-darkness, locking onto mine with a ferocity that could have withered a weaker person.
I froze under her scrutiny, but then, something flickered in her gaze—a crack in the armor, fleeting and elusive, like the briefest spark of lightning in a stormy sky. Was it hesitation? Vulnerability? Whatever it was, she smothered it almost instantly.
"You don't know anything," she growled, her voice low and bristling with defiance.
