As I ended the call, the bathroom door creaked open, and Verity emerged. Her long hair hung damp around her shoulders. She had always been quick in the shower, thirty minutes tops, but recently, she spent at least two hours locked away with her phone.
“Who were you just talking to?” she asked, curious.
When she asked, her eyes stayed glued to her phone. I told her I had just spoken to President Everett.
“Oh,” was all she said, her voice distant, like she hadn’t processed a word. I didn’t push it; those days of trying to make her care were long behind me.
Instead, I quietly started drafting my resignation letter on my phone, fingers moving steadily across the screen.
Verity reached for her cup but paused when she realized the coffee I used to make for her every night wasn’t there. Her cold gaze finally shifted toward me.
“Tyron,” she began. “I took your CT report to an orthopedic specialist. He said your leg only has minor surface injuries. Just be careful not to get the wound wet.”
I barely looked up, still typing. “Okay, I’ll be careful,” I replied, my tone calm, indifferent.