Small and completely out of my depth.
The bed could fit six people. The closet is already filled with clothes I didn't choose.
Everything here belongs to the Sartoris.
Including me.
The room is too quiet.
I hate quiet.
Quiet means thinking. Thinking means remembering. Remembering means feeling all the things I want to push down.
My throat tightens.
I won't cry.
I never cry. Not anymore. Not since Mama died and I had to be strong for Gianna. Not since Papa started gambling and I had to be strong for everyone. Tears don't fix anything.
So I don't cry.
But loneliness?
Loneliness is different.
I can fight fear. I can swallow anger. I can bury grief so deep it almost disappears.
But loneliness creeps in through the cracks. It finds me in the silence. In the spaces between breaths. In rooms that are too big and too empty and too far from everyone I love.
Oliver texted me three times during the drive here.
You okay?
Text me when you get there.
I'm here if you need me.
I haven't responded yet. I don't know what to say.I'm finewould be a lie.I'm scaredwould worry him.I don't know what I'm doingwould be the truth, but the truth feels too heavy to type.
The bed looks soft. Inviting. But I know if I lie down, the thoughts will come. They always do. In the dark, in the silence, when there's nothing to distract me.
You're alone.
You're trapped.
No one is coming to save you.
I shake my head. Move away from the window. Pace the length of the room.
Giulia mentioned breakfast.
"We take breakfast at nine these days," she said when she showed me to my room. Her voice was warm. Kind. She reminded me of Rosa, our housekeeper back home. "You should join us. The family eats together when they can."
The family.
I'm part of the family now.
The thought feels wrong. Like wearing someone else's clothes. Like speaking someone else's language. I don't belong here. I don't know these people. I don't know their rhythms, their rules, their secrets.