The door closed behind her.
What followed was brief and profoundly unglamorous. She gripped the edge of the porcelain sink while her body expelled the small, stubborn remnants of the previous night. Very little left to give. Mostly bitter water and the sharp protest of an empty stomach announcing its existence. Eventually, it passed. The nausea loosened its grip and retreated. She rinsed her mouth, straightened slowly, and pressed the back of her hand against her lips.
Then she looked up at the mirror.
It showed her exactly what she had expected. Pale skin. Dark shadows beneath her eyes that the morning light was not bothering to soften. And the bruise on her cheekbone, which had matured overnight into something impressive, deep purple at the centre, fading outward into yellowed edges, the kind that had clearly decided it would be visible for a full week. Perhaps longer.
