The sound of crying was the only thing filling the quiet room, echoing off the pale walls like a sad, broken melody. It was soft at first, more like a whimper than a wail, but it built steadily, rising and falling in waves that refused to be ignored.
Anita sat across from her. Her hands were folded on her chest as her back leaned on the chair, watching Tessa bawl her eyes out – shoulders shaking with every sob, her breath coming in jagged little bursts like a record skipping on a painful song.
Anita exhaled quietly, her heart aching with a tired kind of sympathy. Not pity, never that, but the ache of someone who had once cried in the same silence, in the same way.
She reached for the tissues. Again. A heap of used tissues sat on the table like a defeated army, damp and crumpled.
"Here," she said quietly, sliding another fresh wipe across the coffee table. "At this point, we might as well invest in a tissue company."
