“I don’t need to go to prom,” Wren said, her voice light in a way that tried too hard.
We were standing in the school hallway after parent-night check-in, the gold-lettered flyer glowing under fluorescent lights—A Night Under the Stars, glitter framing something she’d already decided didn’t belong to her.
“It’s all fake anyway,” she added, giving that practiced shrug she’d worn for years, the one that turned longing into indifference.