Delilah's face was buried so deep in the cushion that the silk had already begun to crease beneath the weight of her forehead, her breath hot and uneven against the fabric. One bare foot kicked lazily against the arm of the couch, toes curling and uncurling like she was trying to anchor herself to something real. Mascara had already surrendered under her left eye, a small, tragic smear of black against flushed skin.
She came up for air once, caught a glimpse of Maddie's face, and dove straight back into the cushion like it might save her from the absurdity of their own life.
"I knew," Delilah managed, voice muffled and slightly damp against the silk, "I knew. I knew Maddie Whitmore was anything but a bluff. I have known for long... and yet — and YET, sweeties, somehow — I had naively entertained the thought, just for a moment, that Maddie was just SAYING IT."
