The longer I stare, the more the glamour of the makeover wilts. My vision blurs and memories emerge, drifting out from beneath the front door and drafty windows. They surround me—specters with swelling mass, hardened weight, and blame so sharp I would swear it’s piercing my skin. They’re crowding me, smothering. The sensation of claustrophobia peaking. My lungs constrict. It’s hard to breathe.
