Renna Rose Lancaster is the girl people stare at like she belongs in a glass case, a life airbrushed into unattainable perfection.
But Renna knows her life is nothing but a golden prison coated in pretty lies that keep her muted and small.
Her day...
"If you came to me with a face I have not seen, with a voice I have never heard, I would still know you.
Even if centuries separated us, I would still feel you.
Somewhere between the sand and the stardust, through every collapse and creation, there is a pulse that echoes of you and me."
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The sun actually had the nerve to show up that afternoon, which felt illegal for Glasgow. A thin, shy strip of gold stretched across the pavement outside University Café, like the city was trying to apologise for every soaked shoe it had given me for the past few days. The air still smelled faintly of wet stone and toasted bagels, but there was warmth on my cheeks for the first time in days, and I wanted to pretend that meant something.
We sat at one of the tiny round tables outside, the metal legs rattling anytime someone walked past like the thing had performance anxiety. Mama had her oversized sunglasses perched on her head, hair falling in loose waves over a leather jacket far too youthful for someone's mother, but she had long ago decided motherhood didn't require surrendering her hot-girl privileges.
I'd barely opened my mouth to complain again when Neil materialised out of nowhere. He carried three plastic cups of boba tea, sealed tops gleaming, straws poking out the sides of his fist.
"Mademoiselle Renna," he announced, sliding one cup toward me with a flourish, "un cadeau pour vous, ma petite terreur."
(A gift for you, my little menace.)
I watched the pearls bouncing at the bottom. "Finally. Something Glasgow hasn't managed to ruin for me."
Neil collapsed into the chair beside me with a sigh that could've belonged to a 90-year-old philosopher.
"Ce soleil timide... incroyable," he muttered, turning his face up to the tiny bit of light.
(This shy sun... incredible.)
I snorted, popping my straw through the plastic film and taking a long, outrageous sip. The sweetness hit immediately, lush and rich, almost too good.
Why couldn't choosing a degree feel this nice? Why couldn't anything right now feel this nice?
Mama beamed after her first sip of hers. "This is perfect. Baby, you should stop by here whenever you need cheering up. It's walking distance from your department."
I blinked at her. "Or I could stop by when I need a reminder of what freedom tastes like. Since I obviously won't get it in lectures."
She groaned into her straw. "We are not doing this again."
"Yes, we are," I snapped, jabbing my straw at her. "I'm still grieving my entire future. I should be allowed to express myself."
"You've been expressing yourself every five minutes for seven entire days," she deadpanned.
