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But the texture of the couch under her sweating palms scratched violently at something that had always been loose in Rumi’s mind. Something in her fingers clung to the ease of hiding next to these two women. Something wanted to howl but was so deeply buried all it could do was bite at its own flesh. Frustration was clawing at the back of the empty hollow feeling. Normally couch time helped. Normally the laughter started to fill her up again. It gave Rumi something to hold onto until she wasn’t drowning.
Or
Rumi had a process. Something that never failed to make her feel better. The girls were never suppose to know.
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