The living room was a still life of abandonment. A single balloon, silver and mylar, nudged the ceiling like a lost moon. Someone had spilled a margarita on the coffee table, leaving a sticky, salt-rimmed galaxy. She didn't clean it. Not yet. First, she needed to remember who she was without the music, without the scripted smiles, without the sharp elbow of a coworker’s joke.
That girl was already asleep.
She thought about the girl at the party who had laughed too loudly at nothing. She thought about the man who had stood too close, his breath hot and beery on her neck. She thought about the version of herself that had nodded along, that had tossed her hair and said "totally" when she meant "never." alina lopez after the party