[Elle's Apartment—Night of Emotional Debris]
Elle Carter was curled up in her hoodie. Not a stylish hoodie. Not a "cozy but cute," Pinterest-board-approved, aesthetic-over-comfort, influencer-sponsored hoodie.
No.
This was a decade-old, oversized, possibly sentient monster hoodie with a zipper that bit people and a mysterious coffee stain that—if you squinted hard enough and believed in divine apparitions—looked vaguely like the Virgin Mary... or maybe Danny DeVito.
She was currently wrapped in it like a human burrito of existential dread, perched on her couch, staring at her phone. The screen was off. Still, she stared.
1 transfer completed.
1 Missed Call—Damien Wolfe.
3 Unread Messages—Mother.
She didn't open any of them.
Instead, she blinked at the ceiling like she was trying to astral-project herself into a reality where none of this existed and her uterus wasn't in emotional negotiations with her heart.
