The passenger seat feels unfamiliar today, even though I've sat in it a hundred times before. The leather is soft beneath my fingers, smooth and immaculate. But something about it feels foreign this morning.
Everything feels different.
My face is blank. Not the careful blankness I wear during meetings with Dad's friends I never wanted to attend, or at family dinners—the mask I've perfected over years of pretending.
Something deeper. Something hollowed out from the inside.
Today, my mood is ruined.
And I don't know why.
I don't like anything anymore.
Not the cold morning. Not the city still wet from last night's rain and dew. Not even sitting here beside Sum, watching the streets pass by while this strange irritation twists tighter and tighter inside my chest.
I don't know what to do with myself.
It's fucking annoying.
