~Aria's POV
I returned to the bedroom, the faint smell of lavender from the hotel lobby still clinging to my clothes. The room was quiet, almost too quiet, and the bed seemed smaller now, as though it were closing in on me. My hands were still damp from the shower, and I rubbed at my hair with a towel, pulling it roughly at first before smoothing it down. The steam had left the air thick and warm, and the faint hum of the building's air conditioning sounded almost like background music to my racing thoughts.
I sank onto the edge of the bed again, my fingers trembling slightly as I reached for my phone. Maybe, just maybe, I could find some distraction online, something to make the night feel a little less heavy.
I unlocked it, scrolling through the notifications automatically, almost without thinking. The screen lit up my face in harsh white light, sharp against the shadows of the room. And then I saw it. My stomach dropped so fast I thought I'd choke. There it was: my book. My first book. Or rather, Wendy's version of it. Posted online with glowing reviews, screenshots from blogs, snippets of praise on social media, and the most infuriating part, my title still stamped on the cover, but attributed to her.
I felt my hands curl into fists, nails digging into my palms. My jaw ached from clenching so tightly, teeth grinding against each other. I threw the phone across the bed, a sharp clatter echoing in the silent room, and it bounced off the wall. I flinched at the sound, but didn't pick it up.
I lay back flat, staring at the ceiling, my chest tight, every breath shallow. My eyes darted from shadow to shadow, from the light of the streetlamp spilling faintly through the curtains, to the ceiling fan above me that barely stirred the thick, humid air. I rolled to one side, then the other, twisting my body against the sheets as if I could somehow shake the anxiety out of my bones.
Sleep didn't come. My mind was a carousel of frustration, heartbreak, and disbelief. Each spin brought a new image: Wendy smiling in front of the cameras, reporters taking her side, my father's cold expression the night before. My chest tightened further. My throat felt raw, as though I'd been shouting at an invisible audience for hours.
I sat up and ran my hands through my damp hair, muttering under my breath, "How… how did it even happen?" The words sounded hollow, weak even to me.
I finally decided I needed air, needed to feel something outside of this suffocating room. I got up slowly, bare feet brushing against the carpet, soft and warm, and walked to the window. Pulling aside the heavy curtains, I let the cool night air creep in, carrying the faint scent of rain from the street below.
I looked across at the neighboring building, Ethan's house, and my stomach did a slow flip. The windows were dark, shadows hiding anything inside. I wondered where he was, what he was doing, and whether he even remembered helping me.
I leaned back against the window frame, pressing my hands to it. The glass was cool against my palms, but it did little to ease the heat in my chest. I let my eyes wander down the street, watching the gentle curve of the sidewalk, the way the streetlights spilled light onto puddles left from last night's rain. The reflections danced and shimmered, fractured and broken, just like my thoughts.
After a long moment, I retreated from the window and collapsed into the chair by the bed. I picked up the book that had been abandoned on the nightstand, hoping that flipping through pages might distract me, might let me escape my own thoughts. I opened it carefully, the paper soft under my fingers, the smell faintly of ink and paper, but even that didn't soothe me. I read a page, then another, then a paragraph, but the words blurred together. My heart wasn't in it. The book, the story, it didn't matter right now. Nothing did.
Frustration and a sense of helplessness twisted in my stomach. I grabbed my laptop, a small spark of hope in my chest, maybe if I wrote, if I scribbled down my thoughts, I could channel some of this chaos. Maybe I could reclaim control, even in a small way.
I lifted it, switched it on, and nothing happened. My stomach sank. I tried again, pressing buttons, jiggling the cord, nothing. It was completely dead.
I rummaged through my bag, desperate for the charger. Fingers brushing over tissues, receipts, pens, stray hair ties everything except the charger. My heart raced. My frustration mounted, and I let out a sharp hiss, a sound that was half anger, half despair.
"How could I forget this?" I whispered harshly, voice breaking slightly. "Everything important… it's all gone."
I sat on the floor, legs pulled to my chest, laptop cold and useless in front of me. I stared at it, willing it to work with sheer force of will, willing it to hum to life so I could start writing, start reclaiming something.
I could hear my own breathing, ragged and uneven, the faint hum of the air conditioning like a slow, mocking heartbeat. Every tick of the clock sounded louder. I threw my arms over my face, letting the tears fall freely this time, hot and unstoppable. I let them soak my palms, the floor beneath me, anything they could touch. My chest rose and fell, rapid and uneven. I wanted to scream, to run, to do anything to shake the despair from my body.
Then, I sat on the bed and told myself to sleep.
" Just sleep. That was all. Close your eyes. Breathe. Let the night pass."
It sounded simple in my head. It never was.
I lay down, pulling the blanket up to my chest, the sheets cool at first, then quickly too warm. I turned onto my side. My back. My stomach. Nothing worked. Every position felt wrong, like my body didn't belong to the bed anymore.
My mind would not shut up.
It kept replaying everything. Wendy's face on the screen. The comments. The praise that should have been mine. My father's message blinking unanswered on my phone. The word plagiarist, loud and ugly, sticking to me no matter how hard I tried to shake it off.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
"Stop," I whispered into the dark. "Please, just stop."
The room answered with silence.
I turned again, the mattress creaking softly under me. The clock on the bedside table glowed faintly. I didn't want to look at it, but I did anyway. Minutes crawled. Then hours. Each time I checked, it felt like time was mocking me. It was moving too slowly, refusing to help.
My head felt heavy, stuffed with cotton and noise at the same time. Thoughts crashed into each other.
"What if I never recover from this? What if this is how people remember me? What if I really did lose everything with one lie I didn't even try to expose?"
My chest tightened. I pressed a pillow over my face, trying to block the thoughts out, but they only grew louder. My heart beat too fast, then too slow. I kicked the blanket off, then dragged it back on when the air felt too cold.
I must have dozed off for seconds at a time, because I kept jerking awake, breath sharp, body tense, like I had been falling. Each time I opened my eyes, the room was still the same. Dark, quiet, and unforgiving.