Evelina's breath steadied, though the occasional hiccup of a sob still escaped her as the tears began to slow. Exhaustion settled over her, pulling her down like a heavy tide. Her mind drifted, no longer fully present in the car.
The steady rhythm of the rain against the car window lulled Evelina into a deep slumber. Her subconscious pulled her into a memory she hadn't dared to visit in years—a memory that began with her usual clumsiness.
It was the first week of university, and Evelina, a wide-eyed freshman, was running late to her introductory seminar. Arms laden with notebooks and a precariously balanced coffee cup, she sprinted across the bustling campus.
"Excuse me! Coming through!" she called out, weaving through the crowd.
And then it happened.
She tripped over her own feet, launching her coffee into the air like a dramatic slow-motion scene from a movie. The cup's lid popped off, its contents splattering over the crisp white shirt of a nearby student.
