SAMANTHA
Darlington shifted closer to me, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were approaching a frightened animal. The space between us diminished until I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. His eyes, those gentle amber pools, studied my face with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"How are you really feeling?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I can see you're stressed. You don't have to pretend with me."
I opened my mouth to deny it, to assure him that I was fine, but the words wouldn't come. He was right. I was exhausted, broken, and barely holding myself together. The mask I had worn for so long was cracking, and he could see right through it. My hands trembled slightly, and I clasped them together to still the shaking.
"I'm... managing," I finally managed, my voice hollow and distant. The word felt inadequate, a poor description of the chaos swirling inside me.
