aria

jenna ortega stalker life on stage superstar

tara carpenter return reason unanswered ↳unanswered II what i can't say ↳what i can't undo this christmas, without us change of plans not anymore he doesn't know* her words, not mine* when you weren't here the cost of hate*

cairo sweet testify chasing ignorant her own undoing

vada cavell the only way out tw sensitive topics what we've been holding back*

sam carpenter not allowed ↳not allowed II when she lied to see you

Growing up, stability was something she saw other people have, not something she ever expected. Her life was built on whatever scraps her mother didn't use up first, and on learning how to survive before she'd even had a chance to be a kid.

She'd learned early that nobody was coming to save her, and nobody was paying attention long enough to care if she sank or fought her way up for air.

From the time she was old enough to follow instructions, her mom made sure she understood how things worked: money didn't fall into your lap, and nobody handed you chances. You took what you could, however you could, and you kept the cycle going.

She didn't have to.

Little comments, quiet expectations, the way she'd hand Mabel small packages and tell her who to deliver them to — it all blended into routine. Sometimes it sounded like trust. Sometimes it sounded like love. Mostly, it sounded like the only way they'd make rent.

By the time Mabel realized what she was involved in, it was already too late to pretend she had a choice. Her mom depended on her to bring in cash, to help keep the apartment afloat, to clean up the messes she was too strung-out to deal with. The line between being a daughter and being an accomplice blurred until Mabel couldn't tell which role she was supposed to fill anymore.

When her mom disappeared into her addictions for good, Mabel kept going. Selling for herself instead of somebody else. Not because she was ambitious, but because it was the only skill she had, the only path that didn't collapse under her feet.

And with every deal, every night spent out there alone, something inside her hardened. It wasn't bitterness, not exactly — more like a quiet acceptance that she wasn't built for soft things. She wasn't someone people prioritized. She barely prioritized herself.

She knew what it was like to run on adrenaline instead of hope.

She knew what it was like to come home with pockets full of cash but feel completely empty.

She knew what it was like to have her name whispered in alleys, not because she mattered, but because she was useful.

She knew what it was like to exist without being known.

Nothing in her life had ever been gentle. Nothing had ever been safe.

And for the longest time, she believed that was all she would ever get.

That kind of upbringing didn't make a person soft. It made them efficient. It made them learn to move quickly, talk little, and never show hesitation.

By the time she hit her teens, Mabel had already slipped into a rhythm most adults wouldn't survive — in and out of alleys, handing off tiny baggies, memorizing faces she couldn't trust, keeping track of debts that could get someone hurt if they weren't paid fast enough.

Selling wasn't some dramatic, high-stakes choice. It was routine. Wake up, check what she had left, make sure nothing was missing, and head out before the sun rose too high. Nights were spent in backrooms, stairwells, empty parking lots — anywhere quiet enough for a handoff but crowded enough that cops blended in.

Fear had been there at the beginning. Her first few deals had her heartbeat in her throat, fingers shaking just enough that she had to shove her hands into her pockets to steady them. But fear burned out eventually, replaced by something sharper. Adrenaline.

The kind that hit right when a cruiser rolled past or when a buyer talked too loud or when someone's eyes stayed on her a little too long.

And then, after enough years, even the adrenaline faded.

Nothing happened if you were smooth.

Nothing happened if you paid attention.

Nothing happened if you acted like you belonged in whatever corner you were standing in.

Mabel liked to think she'd gotten good at that — blending in until she wanted to be seen, slipping out when she didn't.

At twelve, she'd been clumsy and scared. By sixteen, she could read a block like a map, could tell which strangers were trouble, which were desperate, which were wired tight enough to make her keep her distance.

This wasn't some tragic transformation. It was just what happened when you grew up in the kind of world that didn't care whether you made it to tomorrow. You hardened because softness wasn't practical. You stopped expecting anything resembling safety because it had never been yours to start with. You learned to rely on yourself because relying on anyone else was just another way to get disappointed.

She wasn't dramatic about it.

She wasn't self-pitying.

She wasn't sentimental.

She was just... used to it.

Used to the weight in her pockets.

Used to the glances exchanged in silence.

Used to walking home under streetlights with her hood up and her hands cold and her mind already calculating the next day.

Used to being nobody's responsibility.

Used to being nobody's priority.

Used to being the person people remembered only when they needed something.

Being hardened didn't bother her. Being jaded didn't either. It was simply the shape her life had taken — the only shape it had ever known.

Most things in Mabel's life didn't stay the same for long. Dealers changed. Corners changed. People got arrested, disappeared, turned unreliable overnight. Routes she'd trusted for months suddenly became too risky. Every day required improvising, adjusting, reading danger before it existed. Predictability wasn't just rare — it was dangerous to expect.

Her world moved fast, and not in a way that asked her permission.

Which was why she held onto the few things that didn't change. There weren't many. Maybe just one. The diner she slid into after nights that went on too long. It wasn't anything special — same burnt coffee, same tired lights — but she knew what she was walking into every time.

The place had a kind of worn-in permanence, like it had existed forever in exactly the same condition. The windows were always a little fogged, the floors always a little sticky, and the air always carried a mix of grease, coffee, and whatever cheap dessert they kept in the display case.

The booths were cracked vinyl, patched in places with duct tape that didn't match. The overhead lights buzzed with that faint electrical hum she could tune out without trying.

She always took the same seat — back corner, left side. Close enough to the wall that nobody could come up behind her, angled so she had a clean view of the front door and half the street outside. Half habit, half paranoia.

It was a spot where she could melt into the background if she needed to, where nobody would expect conversation or small talk.

Crowds changed depending on the hour.

Early mornings were truck drivers, half-asleep and hunched over their mugs, smelling like diesel and cold air.

Middays were tourists with loud shirts and louder voices, opening maps across entire tables even though nobody asked.

Evenings were the regulars — old men who'd been coming there long enough that the staff knew their orders before they sat down.

But late nights, after a deal or a close call, after the kind of adrenaline that made her bones buzz... that was when the place felt the most familiar. Quiet. Dimmer. People passing through instead of sticking around. No one paying enough attention to decide she didn't belong.

At least, not in any way that mattered.

You were different — not because you singled her out or hovered or treated her like she needed watching. You didn't. You were too busy for that. The kind of busy that came from working the night shift long enough to move on instinct: refilling sugar caddies, wiping down counters, calling orders to the cook without looking up.

If anything, you barely reacted to the parts of her that most people flinched at. The tired eyes, the bruised knuckles, the clothes that still carried the cold of whatever street she'd walked in from... none of it made you tense or curious. You just kept working. You just existed in her line of sight.

And maybe that was why she noticed you at all.

Not all at once — more like her eyes kept catching on you when she wasn't trying. The way the overhead lights hit your cheekbone when you leaned over the counter. The way you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear when the register jammed again. The way you always greeted her the exact same way, with that small, unthinking smile that wasn't meant to mean anything... but somehow did.

She didn't walk in looking for you.

But once she'd seen you, she couldn't unsee you.

She found herself tracking your movement without meaning to — following the soft thud of your shoes across the tiles, the quiet rhythm of you juggling plates between tables, the sleeve of your uniform brushing past her booth when you were rushing to drop off someone else's order. There was a steadiness to you she didn't understand. A softness that didn't bend just because the world around it was sharp.

Every time the bell above the door announced her, that same smile appeared — small, warm, almost distracted, like muscle memory more than intention.

You said her name the same way you said anyone's.

You didn't ask where she'd been.

You didn't look at her like she was trouble.

You didn't pry.

And without ever meaning to, certain things started happening.

She'd take her usual booth.

A few minutes later, a mug of coffee would land on the table.

Hot. Fresh.

Sometimes you set it down while still mid-conversation with another customer, not even glancing her way — like it was second nature to know she liked it filled to the brim. Other times you paused just long enough for her to notice the faint smell of whatever lotion you used, or the tired crease near your eyes from too many late nights.

It wasn't attention — not in any deliberate sense.

It wasn't fascination.

It wasn't anything dramatic.

It was just that in a place where everything was worn-down and fluorescent and loud, you weren't.

You were quiet.

You were steady.

You were soft where nothing else was.

And whether she wanted to or not, Mabel noticed.

She noticed you every damn time.

But she knew — with the kind of certainty that didn't come from pessimism, but from pattern — that someone like you didn't end up in lives like hers. You belonged to a world that functioned on schedules and nametags and clean hands. A world where people slept through the night and woke up without checking their phone for bad news. You weren't meant to be tangled up with someone whose pockets were always heavy and whose future was always temporary.

So she never confused noticing with wanting.

Noticing was harmless.

Noticing was automatic.

She noticed the dimple in your cheek that only showed when you smiled without thinking. The way you rolled your sleeves up when it got busy, revealing skin untouched by the kind of scars she knew too well.

The way you leaned your hip against the counter when the rush died down, exhaling like you'd been holding your breath all night. She noticed how your voice softened when you spoke to older customers, how you always thanked people for waiting even when it wasn't your fault.

She filed it all away without ceremony, the same way she did everything else that mattered.

And still, she kept coming back.

Mabel told herself it was convenience. The diner was open late. It was warm. It didn't ask questions. There was coffee that didn't taste like regret and a corner booth that let her see the door and the windows at the same time. It was a place to sit and let the static in her head settle.

But she'd been lying to herself for years.

She knew when something stopped being incidental.

She noticed the shifts the same way she noticed everything — quietly, without assigning meaning. You talking a little longer than necessary while refilling her mug. Sliding her an extra side without comment, like it was a mistake you didn't feel like correcting. The way your hand brushed hers sometimes when you set the coffee down — not lingering, not apologetic, just gone again like it hadn't happened at all.

She never reacted.

She never let her face change.

If she'd learned anything growing up, it was that attention could turn dangerous fast.

What she didn't track as carefully was herself.

How she started choosing nights when the diner wouldn't be crowded. How she showed up even when she wasn't hungry, even when she hadn't been out running errands she didn't name out loud. How she sat longer than she needed to, staring into a cooling mug, waiting for the world to slow down enough that she could breathe.

She never admitted she was waiting for you.

But her body did — the way her shoulders loosened when the bell rang and you looked up. The way the noise in her head dulled when you passed her booth. The way something in her settled just enough to make staying feel possible.

She told herself it didn't mean anything.

That it couldn't.

And still, night after night, she let it happen.

The first real shift was small enough that she almost missed it.

It was late, the diner mostly empty, the kind of quiet that only comes when the rush is long gone and the lights feel too bright for the hour. When your shift ended, you didn't disappear back behind the counter like you usually did. You grabbed your jacket instead, lingering near the door while she finished her coffee. You spoke to her then — not to fill silence, not to ask anything from her, but in that gentle, tired way people use when they're comfortable enough to be honest.

You mentioned how cold it had gotten. How the nights dragged when the diner stayed slow. How you hated leaving when the streets were empty.

You waited.

Not in a way that cornered her — just long enough to make it clear you weren't rushing her out of your life.

So she walked you home.

It wasn't a decision she weighed. It just happened, the same way everything seemed when it came to you. You talked as you went — about nothing important, about work, about the kind of things that didn't ask her to explain herself. You didn't push. You didn't dig. You just kept pace beside her like you trusted her to lead.

After that, the line between the diner and her life blurred.

Some nights she stayed after your shift ended. Other nights you found reasons to sit with her when it was slow. Time stretched. Conversations deepened without ever turning heavy. It felt less like something beginning and more like something unfolding at its own pace.

Mabel had always expected people to brace themselves around her — to be careful, to watch for cracks.

You never did.

You learned her gradually, the way she allowed herself to be learned. And when she finally reached for you, it wasn't reckless or sudden. It was quiet. Familiar. Something she'd already been living with for a while.

By the time she let herself think of you as hers — and accepted that she was yours — it made sense.

Not because she believed in inevitability.

But because she trusted what had grown between you.

The first time you invited her in, it caught her off guard.

She'd walked you home like she always did, hands in her jacket pockets, eyes scanning out of habit as the street thinned and the buildings grew taller. Your place stood out — all clean lines and glass, the kind of building with a doorman who nodded politely and cameras she clocked without meaning to. She didn't think much of it. Everyone lived better than she did. That had always been true.

But when you stopped at the entrance instead of saying goodnight, you hesitated — not shy, just searching for the right shape of the sentence.

You asked if she wanted to come up. Stay for a bit.

The way you said it was casual, almost uncertain, like you weren't testing anything. Like it hadn't occurred to you that she might say no.

She didn't.

Inside, the apartment felt expensive in a way that wasn't loud about it. High ceilings. Clean surfaces. Furniture that looked chosen instead of scavenged. It smelled like detergent and something citrusy, not smoke or grease or the street. She took it in quietly, cataloging the space the same way she always did.

You explained without being asked — how your parents hadn't liked the places you'd shown them, how they'd insisted on helping, how your father had said something about "proper living." You shrugged it off like it wasn't a big deal.

Mabel didn't comment.

She never did when she noticed things that didn't belong to her.

You ended up on the couch, close but not touching. You put on When Harry Met Sally like it was already decided, then immediately started explaining why — how it wasn't really a rom-com, how people reduced it to something it wasn't, how it was about timing more than love, about two people circling each other for years before they finally got it right.

You rambled, unapologetic, hands moving as you talked, spoiling entire scenes without realizing it.

She let you spoil half of it.

She hated romantic comedies.

Still, she watched.

Halfway through, you shifted without thinking. Your shoulder pressed into hers. A moment later, your head followed, settling against her like it had always belonged there. Mabel went still — not tense, just aware — waiting for the instinct to pull back.

It didn't come.

So she stayed. Toward the end, she reached for your hand, fingers closing around yours with quiet certainty. You didn't react. You didn't startle. You just laced your fingers together like it made sense.

When she finally stood to leave, it felt later than it was.

She walked you to the door. The hallway was dim, quiet in the way expensive buildings always were. She paused there, hand already on the handle, then stepped forward instead.

She kissed you without hesitation. Not rushed. Not gentle. Just sure. Her hand came up to your jaw like it had somewhere to be.

You didn't pull away.

You stayed exactly where you were, mouth soft against hers, breath uneven when she pulled back. That was all she needed. No conversation. No clarification.

From then on, things were different.

She waited for you after shifts.

She stayed the night.

She reached for you openly.

She never asked what you were.

She never had to.

She crossed the line once.

You didn't stop her.

And that was the answer.

Being with you didn't feel like something that happened all at once. It unfolded in pieces — mornings that bled into nights, habits forming without either of you naming them. Mabel learned the shape of your life slowly. The way you left your shoes by the door. The way you hummed without realizing it when you cooked. The way you apologized to furniture when you bumped into it.

You were kind in a way that never asked to be noticed.

That alone made her suspicious at first.

You excused people the way some people excused bad weather. They're probably just having a bad day, you'd say, like it explained everything.

Like it softened the sharpness of the world instead of ignoring it. Mabel hated people like that — or at least, she thought she did. In her experience, that kind of niceness usually came with rot underneath it. A mask people wore while hurting others quietly. Toxic in a way that smiled through it.

But you weren't pretending.

She watched you too closely for that. Watched the way you held patience even when it cost you something. The way you didn't snap back when someone spoke over you. The way you still tipped well when service was bad. The way you noticed when she went quiet and didn't push, didn't demand reassurance, didn't make it about yourself.

You never seemed to wake up in a bad mood.

And when you did have bad days, you didn't take them out on anyone.

It unsettled her more than anger ever could have.

That was what made meeting your parents feel inevitable.

You mentioned it one night like it wasn't a big deal. Dinner at their place. Just a visit. You sounded hopeful, not anxious — like you genuinely believed it would be fine. Mabel nodded along, even as her stomach tightened. She didn't say no. She rarely did.

By the time you were standing outside their house, she felt sick.

She'd been nervous before — plenty of times — but this was different. This was the kind of nervous that made her stomach roll, that had her swallowing hard and wondering if throwing up might actually make it easier.

The place looked exactly like she'd imagined — neat lawn, lights warm behind clean windows, the kind of home that didn't carry echoes. Inside, everything was orderly. Framed photos lined the hallway. Smiling faces. Vacations. Proof of continuity.

The inside was exactly what she expected. Clean in a way that felt permanent. Framed photos on the walls — vacations, holidays, smiles that looked effortless. Furniture that matched. A life that had always had room to breathe.

Your parents greeted her politely. Too politely.

Your mother commented on her jacket first — asked where she'd gotten it, then nodded in a way that made it clear she was filing the answer away. Your father asked what she did for work, then followed it with for now? like it was casual. Like it wasn't a question with a shape to it.

They asked where she'd grown up. If she'd gone to college. If she planned to stay in the city long-term. Every question was wrapped in a smile, every pause just long enough to feel intentional.

Mabel recognized it instantly.

Of course they wouldn't want her there. Not in their clean fucking house, with its matching furniture and quiet confidence. She'd had grown up in spaces that were barely held together.

Apartments where the walls were thin and the silence was dangerous. She'd learned to exist quietly, to take up as little room as possible when things felt unstable.

Looking around your parents' house, she could already picture your childhood — dinners eaten at the table, arguments that cooled instead of exploded, parents who noticed when you were struggling.

A life where you'd always been someone's priority.

So she didn't blame them for not approving. No parents ever would. Not of a girl like her. Not of someone who carried the street in her posture, who scanned rooms without thinking, who didn't know how to exist in places this clean without bracing for something to go wrong.

So she sat straight through dinner, answering carefully, keeping her voice even. She didn't need to impress them. She didn't want to.

What she hadn't expected was you noticing it too.

You noticed the shifts immediately — the tone changes, the pauses, the way compliments were wrapped in backhanded concern. And you didn't shrink. You didn't laugh it off. You didn't pretend not to hear it.

You corrected them calmly.

You redirected conversations without apology.

You spoke about Mabel like she was something you were proud of — not exaggerated, not defensive, just honest.

You brought up her humor. Her intelligence. The way she remembered things that mattered. You said it like it was fact, like there was nothing up for debate.

Mabel stayed quiet through it, jaw tight, letting it pass over her the way she'd learned to let judgment pass. Their opinions didn't matter. She didn't need their approval. She wasn't there for them.

She was there for you.

And watching you choose her — openly, repeatedly, without hesitation — settled something deep in her chest.

Your lives had never been built to match. You came from warmth and structure and safety. She came from survival and improvisation and nights that never promised anything. The gap between those worlds was obvious.

But you never treated it like a problem.

You just reached for her like she belonged there.

Which was why she told you earlier than she planned to.

Not because she wanted absolution, or forgiveness, or reassurance — but because carrying it around you felt wrong. Like lying by omission. Like letting you love a version of her that wasn't complete.

It happened a few weeks in. Not during a fight. Not during some dramatic confession. Just one of those nights where the world felt quieter than usual, where the air between you had settled into something almost domestic.

She didn't dress it up.

Didn't soften the edges.

She told you what she did. What she'd been doing since she was too young to know better. Who she dealt with. Why she kept doing it. The risks. The money. The way it worked.

And underneath it all, the unspoken truth: this is the part of me that makes people leave.

She watched your face carefully. Too carefully.

She braced for disgust. For panic. For the sharp, immediate fear that people like you were taught to have about people like her. She braced for you to tell her she had to stop. Or worse — for you to tell her you couldn't be part of it.

You didn't do any of that.

You went quiet. Not shocked — just thinking. Processing. Like you were rearranging something in your head instead of throwing it away.

You asked questions. Not accusatory ones. Practical ones. How long. How often. If she was safe. If anyone else knew.

And when she finally ran out of words, finally stopped filling the silence with explanations she didn't owe you, you reached for her hand.

Didn't flinch.

Didn't pull back.

"I don't love you less," you said — not as a grand declaration, just as a fact. Like it had never even crossed your mind that you might.

That was the moment something in her cracked.

Not relief. Not yet.

Just the quiet, unfamiliar feeling of being seen without being reduced.

You didn't ask her to quit.

You didn't give her ultimatums or lectures or speeches about consequences. You weren't naïve — she could tell that much — but you weren't cruel about it either. You understood that her life hadn't been built on options. That walking away wasn't a switch she could just flip.

So instead, you stayed.

You stayed consistent. You stayed curious. You stayed gentle in a way that didn't feel conditional.

And slowly — without ever meaning to — you started pulling her somewhere else.

Not away from the streets, exactly. Not at first.

Just toward you.

You made space for her in your life like it was the most natural thing in the world. Asked her to stay over. Cooked with her. Let her teach you the things she was good at — the knife skills, the instincts, the way she could throw together a meal out of almost nothing and make it taste like something worth sitting down for.

You didn't treat her like she was temporary.

Didn't act like she was something you had to brace yourself for losing.

You talked about future things without attaching expectations to them. Little, casual whens instead of ifs. As if it was obvious she'd still be there.

And Mabel — who had spent her whole life being useful, replaceable, expendable — didn't know what to do with that.

She found herself lingering longer in places that had nothing to do with deals. Turning down jobs without realizing she was doing it. Timing her nights around you instead of risk.

She didn't stop because you asked her to.

She stopped because somewhere along the way, she started wanting the life you saw when you looked at her.

The version of herself that wasn't just surviving.

The promise came quietly.

No grand moment. No dramatic vow.

Just one night, curled into your side, her voice low and steady as she said she was done. That she didn't want to keep living like that. That she didn't want to keep coming home with adrenaline under her skin and blood on her knuckles when there were other ways to exist.

She promised you.

No more selling.

No more jobs that could get her killed or locked away.

No more disappearing acts she couldn't come back from.

You didn't celebrate.

You didn't act like you'd won.

You just held her a little tighter, like you understood exactly what it had cost her to say it.

You were everything she wasn't.

You were soft where she'd learned to be sharp.

You were patient where she'd learned to be fast.

You believed in continuity in a world that had taught her everything was temporary.

And somehow, without ever asking her to change who she was at her core, you gave her something she'd never had before.

A reason to stay.

A reason to build.

A reason to believe that maybe — just maybe — she wasn't disposable after all.

Life with you didn't feel safer at first.

That was the strange part.

Mabel had spent so long moving through the world like it was waiting to lunge that quiet felt suspicious. Streets without tension made her restless. Rooms without exits made her count doors. She noticed hands in pockets, eyes that lingered a second too long, smiles that didn't seem earned.

Walking beside you only sharpened it.

People smiled more when you were there. Strangers held doors, said hello, made eye contact without calculation. Mabel read it wrong every time — saw threat where there wasn't any, malice where there was none. An easy grin from a passerby twisted in her gut into something ugly and intentional, and she'd tense beside you, jaw set, ready.

You always noticed.

Not in a way that called her out. Just a gentle touch at her wrist, a quiet explanation offered like an afterthought. They're just being nice. They probably think you're pretty. They smile at everyone.

You said it so simply she almost believed you.

Almost.

Your world ran on different rules. That became clear quickly.

You moved through days without scanning rooms. You talked to people because you wanted to, not because you needed something from them. You trusted, by default. Not blindly — but openly, like you expected decency and were rarely disappointed when you found it.

Mabel didn't understand how someone learned that.

She watched you exist in ways that made no sense to her. How you waved at neighbors you barely knew. How you stopped to pet dogs. How you apologized when you bumped into someone even when it wasn't your fault. How you smiled at waiters, cashiers, strangers on the street — not because you wanted something, but because that was simply how you moved through the world.

It made her uneasy.

It also made her curious.

You dragged her into things she would've never chosen on her own. Farmer's markets. Movie nights with friends she didn't know how to read yet. Lazy mornings that didn't serve a purpose beyond existing in them. She complained — reflexively, habitually — but she went anyway.

And she stayed.

She found herself sitting through things she used to mock. Old movies. Soft music. Conversations that didn't lead anywhere useful. You talked about stories and characters and feelings with an ease that felt unreal, like something lifted straight out of the rom-coms she'd half-watched as a kid while waiting for her mom to come home.

Back then, she'd assumed that kind of love was made up. Written for people who didn't have to worry about survival.

Now it was happening in front of her.

With her.

She didn't notice herself changing at first.

Didn't notice that her shoulders dropped faster in your presence. That her hand found your back automatically in crowded places. That she laughed more — quietly, at first, like she didn't trust the sound yet.

She still had sharp edges. Still snapped when she felt cornered. Still bristled when things felt too easy.

But around you, she didn't have to stay hard.

You didn't ask her to be softer. You didn't comment on it when she was. You just made space for it, like it was always allowed.

You were everything she wasn't — gentle where she was guarded, open where she was closed off, good in a way that didn't ask to be admired for it.

And somehow, impossibly, you made her believe there was a version of her that could exist outside the life she'd been built for.

Not erased.

Not replaced.

Just... expanded.

That was what pulled her out in the end.

Not fear. Not pressure. Not hope for something better.

But the quiet realization that with you, she could finally rest.

And she wanted to keep that.

So she did.

Until that random Wednesday.

Or maybe it wasn't Wednesday at all. Mabel never figured that part out. The hour was too late, the night stretched thin enough that days bled into each other without asking permission. It could've been Tuesday slipping into morning. Could've been Thursday pretending not to be. Time didn't matter much at that point — not the way it used to.

The apartment was dark and still. Too still.

You were asleep beside her, turned slightly toward her without meaning to, breath slow and even. She could make out the shape of you in the dark — the familiar curve of your shoulder, the rise and fall of your chest. Even without seeing your face clearly, she knew it. Knew every line of it by memory alone.

She hadn't been able to sleep.

Not because of nightmares. Not because of guilt. Just one of those nights where her body refused to shut down, where her thoughts moved faster than the world around them. It happened sometimes. Old habits didn't disappear overnight.

She laid there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet, letting herself exist in it.

Then her phone lit up.

The screen cut through the dark like a blade, washing the room in pale blue light before she could stop it. She reached for it instinctively, already annoyed — already bracing herself for nothing good.

A message from Charlie.

Got an offer. You in?

Her chest tightened before her mind caught up.

No.

That was the answer. It had been the answer for months. It was the answer she'd promised you. No more deals. No more risk. No more nights like this.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, the word already forming in her head.

No.

Before she could type it, another message came through.

125k. All yours if you're in.

The number sat there, bright and unreal.

Mabel swallowed.

That kind of money didn't come around by accident. Didn't get offered twice. It was the kind of number that changed things — the kind that made people stop scraping and start building. The kind that erased debt, bought space, bought time.

Bought security.

Her eyes drifted back to you without her meaning to.

To the quiet way you slept. To the apartment you loved but never quite trusted yourself to settle into fully. To the future you talked about in half-sentences and soft maybes. To the life she'd promised she could give you — one that didn't involve counting every dollar or flinching at every siren.

She told herself it was just a thought.

Just a calculation.

Just one last time.

She told herself she could do it clean. Quick. Easy. That she knew how to disappear into a job and come back without leaving a trace. She'd done it a hundred times before.

She told herself she wouldn't wake you.

And she told herself — quietly, carefully — that she was doing it for you.

Her phone dimmed in her hand as the screen went dark again, the number burned into her vision anyway.

125k.

The room was still.

You didn't move.

Mabel sat there in the dark, caught between the life she'd built and the one she thought she could buy.

And for the first time in a long while, she hesitated.

Hesitation didn't last long in Mabel's world.

It never had.

She'd learned early that standing still was worse than choosing wrong. That if you waited too long, the world decided for you — and it was never kinder about it.

125k.

The number kept rearranging itself in her head, attaching to things without her permission. A stairwell that didn't smell like old carpet and cigarettes. A kitchen she'd actually want to cook in. Windows that let in real light. A door that locked properly.

A life where you didn't have to pretend you were fine with less.

She thought about the way you talked about places you wanted to see, how you always added someday like you weren't sure you were allowed to want it. How you insisted experiences mattered more than money, even as you split checks carefully and shrugged off things you clearly wanted.

She could fix that.

One job. One night.

She could take you somewhere warm, somewhere quiet. She could give you a future that didn't come with conditions. She could prove — to your parents, to the world, maybe even to herself — that she wasn't just something you loved despite.

That she could provide.

That she could be solid.

She told herself it wasn't about going back. That it didn't erase the promise. This was different. Strategic. Temporary. A means to an end.

She'd do the job. Take the money. Walk away clean.

She was good at this. She always had been.

Mabel glanced at you again, at the way you slept so easily beside her — like the world hadn't taught you to expect loss. Her jaw tightened.

You deserved more than what she could give you right now.

Her phone buzzed faintly as the screen lit back up, waiting.

She didn't type a paragraph. Didn't negotiate. Didn't ask questions.

She never did.

Yeah, she replied.

I'm in.

She locked the phone before doubt could creep back in.

Rolled onto her side.

Listened to your breathing until it synced with her own.

And told herself — over and over — that this was the last thing she'd ever have to do wrong to make things right.

___

"Fuck, could you drive any slower?"

Mabel leaned back in the passenger seat, knee bouncing despite herself, eyes flicking between the road ahead and the side mirror like she expected headlights to appear out of nowhere. Charlie didn't look at her when she spoke. He kept his hands steady on the wheel, posture loose in a way that annoyed her more than if he'd been tense.

"Relax," he said. "We're early."

"Yeah. That's the problem."

The car smelled like stale smoke and cheap air freshener, the kind meant to cover something worse. Charlie's car always did. It rattled a little when he slowed, suspension complaining under its own weight. Mabel knew the sound too well — every bump, every uneven stretch of asphalt mapped into her bones.

They'd been driving for almost an hour. Out past where the streets stopped pretending to be maintained. Warehouses instead of apartment buildings. Fewer lights. Longer shadows. The kind of place where nothing good ever happened by accident.

This wasn't a corner deal.

Wasn't a handoff in a parking lot or a quick exchange behind a bar.

This was organized.

Charlie had explained it in pieces — careful, clipped, like he didn't want to say too much even out loud. A pickup routed through a third party. Product already moved once, maybe twice. High value, high demand, low tolerance for mistakes.

That was what the money was for.

125k didn't come from selling to kids in alleyways.

It came from people who expected precision.

Mabel checked her phone again. No new messages. No changes. No last-minute instructions — which somehow made it worse. She preferred chaos she could react to over silence that meant everything was already set in motion.

"You sure about this?" Charlie asked, finally glancing at her.

She didn't look at him.

"Don't start," she said.

"I'm not starting anything. Just asking."

"You already know the answer."

He nodded once, jaw tight, eyes back on the road. Charlie had always been better at pretending things didn't bother him. Mabel wasn't. She felt everything sharp and immediate, like her nerves were always one bad second away from lighting up.

Her hand drifted to her pocket, fingers curling around nothing. Old habit. Grounding.

She told herself not to think about you.

Did it anyway.

The way you'd been warm beside her. The way your place still smelled like detergent and coffee and something faintly sweet. The way you hadn't stirred when she slipped out of bed, careful and quiet like she always was when it mattered.

She pushed it down.

This wasn't the moment for softness.

The car slowed as they turned off the main road, tires crunching over gravel. A chain-link fence appeared ahead, half-lit by a flickering security light. Charlie eased them forward, engine idling low, like the car itself knew better than to draw attention.

Mabel straightened in her seat.

Whatever came next, there was no undoing it.

She rolled her shoulders back, forced her face into something neutral — something hard. The version of herself she knew how to wear.

Just one job, she reminded herself.

One last time.

And then she'd go home.

The thought didn't settle the way she expected it to.

Her mind flickered to you anyway, uninvited and persistent. Not in sharp images — just impressions. The weight of your body beside hers. The way you curled in on yourself when you slept. The faint sound you made when you exhaled, like you were always on the edge of a sigh.

She checked the time on her phone again.

Too early. Too late. Hard to tell.

No missed calls. No messages. Nothing that said you'd woken up and reached for her side of the bed only to find it cold.

For a moment, she let herself imagine you still asleep. Hair a mess against the pillow. The apartment quiet except for the hum of the city outside. You'd wake later, stretch, assume she'd gone out for coffee or a walk or one of those things she did sometimes when sleep didn't come easy.

She clung to that version of the morning.

The guilt crept in anyway.

It sat low in her chest, dull and heavy — not panic, not fear, just the uncomfortable awareness that she was standing somewhere she'd promised you she wouldn't go again. That she'd slipped out without a word, without a note, without even the decency of a lie you could hold onto.

She told herself she'd explain later.

That you'd understand.

That when she came back with a future in her hands, the method wouldn't matter anymore.

Her thumb hovered over your contact for half a second before she locked the phone again, jaw tightening.

If she reached out now, she wouldn't stop.

So she didn't.

Mabel exhaled slowly through her nose.

This was it.

No more thinking.

No more you — not yet.

Just the job.

Just getting through it.

And then she could go home.

But then Charlie turned the wheel.

Not sharply. Not enough to scream wrong at first. Just a casual shift, like he'd done it a hundred times before. The road narrowed, lights thinning out as the car cut off the route they were supposed to take.

Mabel noticed immediately.

"The fuck are you doing?" she asked, head snapping toward him.

Charlie didn't look rattled. If anything, he seemed pleased with himself. "Relax. I'm shaving time."

"That's not the route."

"It gets us there faster."

"That's not the route," she repeated, slower this time. "We don't take side streets."

He shrugged. "You were the one in a rush."

Her stomach tightened.

Maybe he was avoiding cops.

Maybe he thought he was being smart.

Maybe he just wanted to feel useful.

None of it mattered.

"You don't change plans on this kind of job," she said, voice low. "That's how you get flagged."

Charlie scoffed softly. "Flagged how? They don't have trackers on us."

Mabel looked out the window, jaw set.

They didn't need trackers.

People like this didn't rely on GPS or tech or anything that left a trail. They used eyes. Bodies. Corners and checkpoints and guys leaning against cars pretending to smoke.

They expected you to pass Point A.

Then Point B.

Then Point C.

Nothing fancy. Just patterns.

And when a car didn't show where it was supposed to — when it slipped sideways instead of forward — it didn't read as efficient.

It read as wrong.

"Go back," she said.

"We're fine," Charlie replied. "You're overthinking it."

"I'm not," Mabel snapped. "I've been doing this since I was twelve. You don't improvise unless you're trying to disappear."

Silence stretched between them, thick and uneasy. The car kept moving, tires hissing softly over pavement that hadn't been used much in years.

Mabel's pulse picked up.

Every turn felt like a question she didn't want answered. Every empty intersection felt too empty. She scanned shadows, mirrors, the way she always did — but something had shifted. The rhythm was off.

And once that happened, you couldn't undo it.

"Charlie," she said, quieter now. "If this goes bad—"

"It won't," he cut in.

But the confidence in his voice didn't match the tension in his shoulders.

Mabel leaned back in her seat, forcing her breathing steady, even as her instincts screamed.

This wasn't part of the plan.

And people noticed when you stopped following one.

Too late now.

Fifteen minutes passed.

Maybe twenty.

Long enough for nothing to happen.

The roads widened again, lights returning in uneven rows, the familiar landmarks slowly threading back into place. Charlie merged onto the route they were supposed to be on, like the detour had never existed at all.

No headlights in the mirrors.

No sudden stops.

No cars trailing them for too long.

Mabel felt it first in her shoulders — the way they finally dropped, tension bleeding out little by little. Her leg stopped bouncing. Her breathing evened out. The wrongness faded into something she could ignore.

Maybe she'd been right.

Maybe Charlie's shortcut hadn't mattered.

She leaned her head back against the seat, eyes flicking to the windshield, the dark road stretching ahead of them. The job was still intact. The money still real. Everything still moving forward.

Then her phone vibrated.

Not a message.

A call.

Her stomach dropped so hard it felt physical.

She didn't need to look to know who it was. Your ringtone — soft, familiar, painfully out of place in the car — filled the space between her and Charlie.

She looked anyway.

Your name glowed on the screen.

Calling.

Not texting.

Calling meant you were awake.

Calling meant you'd noticed she wasn't there.

Her mind raced, possibilities colliding all at once. Had you woken up alone? Checked the time? Found the other side of the bed cold? Did you already know something was wrong, or were you just reaching for her out of habit?

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

If she answered, she'd hear your voice. Soft. Worried. Still trusting. She wouldn't be able to lie fast enough. Wouldn't be able to explain why she was in a moving car at this hour, why she wasn't already on her way back.

If she didn’t answer—

The phone buzzed again, insistent now.

“Who is it?” Charlie asked, glancing over, concern cutting through his earlier ease.

Mabel flipped the phone face down in her lap.

She looked straight ahead, out through the windshield, jaw tight. Swallowed hard.

“Y/N,” she said.

Her chest felt tight, like the air had thickened around her. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to be awake, weren’t supposed to be pulling at the thread she was trying so hard not to unravel.

Charlie frowned. “You’re not gonna answer?”

“No.”

The word came out sharp, immediate — like a reflex. Like something she’d decided before he even finished asking.

Charlie opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. “You sure?”

“She can’t know,” Mabel said, quieter now, but no less firm. “Not right now.”

He hesitated. “You think she’s—”

“She’ll fall back asleep,” Mabel cut in. “It’s fine.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it.

The car kept moving. The road stretched on ahead of them, unbothered, unchanged.

Her phone buzzed once more against her thigh.

Then stopped.

Mabel stared out into the dark, heart still racing, and told herself — again — that it was fine.

It had to be.

Even if it didn’t feel like it.

Then the phone stopped vibrating.

The silence felt almost loud in her hand.

Relief came first — immediate, instinctive — followed closely by guilt that settled slower, heavier. Mabel told herself you’d gone back to sleep. That you’d barely remember calling her when morning came. She’d explain it later. She always did.

You’d understand once she showed you the money.

The car kept moving, tires humming against asphalt, the city thinning out into something quieter and more industrial the farther they drove. They were close now — close enough that Mabel could already picture how it would go.

Simple.

They wouldn’t even need to get out for long. A handoff, a confirmation, then done. Easy money. Clean enough. Nothing that should’ve felt this wrong.

Then her phone rang again.

She stiffened.

Charlie glanced at her. She ignored it, eyes forward, jaw tight. Let it ring out.

Silence.

A breath.

Then it rang again.

Longer this time.

Her stomach dropped.

That wasn’t you checking in half-asleep. That wasn’t habit. That was insistence.

“Just answer it,” Charlie muttered, watching her from the corner of his eye. “See what she wants.”

“Fuck,” Mabel breathed, frustration sharp in her voice.

She swiped across the screen.

Her body shifted automatically — shoulders loosening, expression softening into something practiced and familiar. She lifted the phone to her ear, the small smile already in place.

“Hi, Y/N.”

Except the voice on the other end didn’t belong to you.

It was low. Calm. Uninterested in her reaction.

Then there are the nights that feel heavy, where nothing clicks, and you're suddenly hyper-aware of how tired you are, or how warm the room feels, or how you've been nursing the same drink for an hour just to keep your hands busy.

And then there's the third kind—the one that stretches on long after it should've ended, when something about the air feels wrong, and you can't figure out why you haven't left yet.

The nights that feel like they should've ended hours ago, but somehow, you're still in the middle of them.

That was what this one had become.

The kind of night that dragged not because it was boring, but because it carried a weight you couldn't quite put your finger on. The kind of weight that sat in your chest and made every minute feel longer than it really was.

You hadn't even wanted to come to this party in the first place.

Normally, it was the other way around. You were the one texting Tara while she was still half-curled in bed, swearing she'd regret it if she didn't come out, promising that she'd laugh, drink, loosen up once she got there. You were always the one with your hand at her wrist, tugging her out the door, insisting that fun didn't wait around for people who hesitated.

But tonight the roles had flipped.

It was Tara who pressed. Tara who leaned in the doorway of your room earlier, arms crossed, saying you both needed a break. That it'd be good for you. That you hadn't gone out in a while, and it'd be a waste to stay in when everyone else was going.

She'd offered to drive, too. Said it like it was nothing—just a casual shrug, the kind she used when she didn't want you to realize how much she cared. I'll drive, don't worry about it. Like it was all part of some easy plan she'd already worked out in her head.

She'd promised she'd stay sober so you could enjoy yourself. Said she'd look after you.

And maybe that was what convinced you. Because the truth was, Tara knew you too well. She knew how quickly you lost track at these things, how you had a habit of chasing shots you didn't need just to stretch the night a little longer. She'd seen you wobble through enough mornings-after to know better.

And lately... she'd been tense. That was the only word for it. Jittery in a way she tried to cover, snapping her gum a little too hard, checking her phone like it owed her something. When she told you it might be nice to just hang out—no pressure, no drama—you believed her. You wanted to believe her.

So you went.

And maybe that really had been her plan at first. To be the responsible one, to keep her word, to make sure nothing got out of hand. But somewhere between arriving and the music swelling too loud, she started drinking anyway.

Not much. Not enough to draw attention. She wasn't slurring, she wasn't stumbling. To anyone else, it probably looked like nothing at all — but you noticed.

You noticed because she'd made such a point about not drinking at all. And you didn't say anything. Truthfully, you didn't care. If she wanted a drink, she deserved one. If she wanted ten, that was her problem. You weren't her babysitter.

And honestly, it wasn't like you were having the best time either. The night had already started to feel long, even before you realized it. You'd been dragged through conversations you didn't care about, standing there with a fixed smile while people went on about professors you'd never had or jokes you weren't around for. Half the time, you just nodded along, waiting for someone else to answer so you didn't have to.

The first drink had gone down too fast, more habit than anything. You'd hoped it would flip the switch, loosen things up, make the room feel warmer, funnier, easier. It hadn't. The second one barely touched you at all. By the third, you were just holding a cup because it gave you something to do with your hands.

Everywhere around you, the same scene played out. People were laughing too loudly, leaning into each other like they were on the verge of confessing secrets, spilling drinks and pretending not to notice. The music was loud but not unbearable, the kind that thumped through the floorboards and made the edges of every conversation blur.

It was no different from any other party you'd been to.

And yet, it wasn't fun either. Not the way it usually was. You weren't doubled over in the corner, laughing until your ribs hurt. You weren't tugging Tara into the kitchen for another round, or leaning too close to strangers you'd forget about in the morning.

Instead, everything dragged. Conversations slipped away before you could find a reason to care about them. The drinks didn't land. The room felt too bright, too crowded, too familiar in a way that made the hours crawl.

Every time you thought about leaving, you ended up staying put.

Part of that was Tara's fault.

She'd been glued to you earlier, tucked in your lap on the couch like she belonged there, her mouth tasting faintly of lime and vodka as she kissed you lazily between other people's conversations. You hadn't cared who was watching. Her weight against you, the warmth of her pressed thigh, the way her hand toyed with the edge of your jacket—it made staying feel inevitable.

But then she'd pulled away, sliding off your lap with a quick squeeze of your knee. Said she was just going to grab some water, maybe run into someone she knew from class. You hadn't questioned it.

Tara had a habit of disappearing for little stretches at parties, drifting between groups with that sharp, restless energy she got when she'd had just enough to drink.

That was... however long ago now. Long enough for your buzz to flatten out, leaving you slouched in the same spot with your legs crossed, the room spinning just a little too slowly. The red solo cup in your right hand was still half-full, though you'd been sipping at it steadily, the liquor inside stronger than it had any right to be. It burned going down, the kind of burn that should've kept you alert, but instead it blurred the edges of the room into something shapeless.

You tipped the cup to your lips again, wincing faintly as the alcohol hit your tongue. Your eyes drifted over the crowd, scanning faces without really seeing them. People swayed to the music, pressed in close against each other, shouting conversations you couldn't make out over the bass. Every now and then, someone laughed loud enough to cut through, but even that felt muted, like it was happening on the other side of a wall.

It was the kind of watching you did when you were too tipsy to join in but not drunk enough to forget you weren't having fun. Blurry, detached, like you were looking in on someone else's night instead of your own.

That was when you saw her.

At first, it was just a ripple in the crowd—a few shoulders turning, heads twisting, the natural flow of people breaking. Then she was there, cutting straight through the mass of bodies like she didn't care who was in her way. Tara didn't weave or sidestep; she shoved. Hard. The kind of sharp, precise shoves that made people stumble, spill drinks, glare after her like they might say something—only to realize she wasn't even looking at them.

Her eyes were locked on you.

Even in the dim light, you could make out her expression. Her brows drawn so tight they nearly touched, mouth pressed into a line so thin it was more blade than lips. Her jaw clenched, her nostrils flaring with each breath. She looked—God, she looked like steam could've been coming off her. Not drunk, not stumbling. Just laser-focused, that particular brand of intensity you'd learned to recognize even if you couldn't always name what caused it.

And maybe it was the alcohol clouding your head, or maybe it was the fact that she was shorter than nearly everyone in her path, but the sight of her pushing forward like that was almost surreal. People loomed over her, half a foot taller, some of them bulky enough to knock her flat if they tried—but she didn't falter. She carved her way across the room with the kind of force that made you forget how small she really was.

By the time she reached you, the crowd seemed thinner in her wake, like she'd torn a hole straight through it. She didn't hesitate. Her hand clamped around your arm, fingers digging in with that familiar grip—firm, uncompromising, the one she always used when she'd had enough. Except this time it was different. Sharper. Harder. Like she wasn't just trying to steady you, but to claim you.

You blinked up at her, caught off guard, cup sloshing in your other hand.

"What?—Tara, what—"

"Get up." Her voice was flat, but the edge in it was undeniable.

You stared at her for a second, trying to piece together what you'd missed. Normally she was subtle about these moods—quick tugs, soft warnings, a look that meant time to go. But this wasn't subtle. She looked almost like she was seeing red, and the pressure on your arm made you wince.

"We're leaving"

"What? Already?" you tried, half-teasing, half-hopeful she might ease up if you acted casual.

"Yes. Now."

It wasn't a suggestion.

Before you could argue, she was hauling you up with a strength you always underestimated. For someone who barely reached your shoulder, she knew how to make her grip unshakable.

The cup nearly slipped from your hand as she dragged you toward the door, her pace so forceful you had to stumble to keep up. You didn't exactly want to stay, but the suddenness of it all left you reeling.

There wasn't time to protest, to figure out what set her off.

She yanked you through the crowd with the same stubborn force she'd used to reach you, ignoring every person you bumped into along the way. Shoulders brushed, cups tipped, someone cursed as beer sloshed onto their shirt, but Tara didn't so much as glance back. Her grip on your arm didn't soften either, steady and relentless, like she thought if she let go even once you'd slip away from her.

When you reached the door, she shoved it open so hard it slammed against the outer wall, the crack of wood on brick loud enough to make a few people turn their heads. You flinched, but Tara didn't pause, didn't care. She pulled you straight through, into the night air.

The shift hit you instantly. The inside of the house had been all heat and noise—sticky air thick with sweat and alcohol and too many voices layered over one another. Out here, the world felt sharper.

The cold autumn air bit at your cheeks, damp with that kind of wet chill that promised rain even if the clouds hadn't opened yet.

You breathed it in deep, the faint smell of wet leaves and car exhaust and something metallic lingering in the night. It was quieter too—just the faint bass of music muffled through the walls, a few shouts from the porch behind you, and the sound of your own shoes hitting the steps as Tara dragged you down them.

You barely had time to adjust before she was steering you across the cracked driveway, straight toward her car parked crooked near the curb.

Only when you reached it did she finally let go, your arm tingling from where her fingers had pressed into your skin. She was already patting at herself, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jean jacket with quick, impatient motions. You stood there for a moment, watching her scramble—her head bent down, brows drawn, muttering under her breath as she fumbled for her keys.

And it was then, watching her, that the thought landed — this wasn't safe.

Sure, it was late, close to midnight. The streets were mostly empty, traffic thinned to nothing but the occasional pair of headlights sliding past. But that didn't erase the fact that she'd had drinks. More than a couple, from what you'd seen. Driving, even for a few blocks, felt like begging for trouble.

"Tar," you said carefully, trying to keep your voice even. "Let's just leave the car here and walk home."

She didn't even look up. Still rifling through her pockets, she shot back immediately, the words fast and dismissive, like she'd been expecting it. "No. I'm fine to drive."

You sighed, the kind of long exhale you used when she was being stubborn in the most exhausting way. "How many drinks did you have?" you asked, tone dipping toward parental despite yourself.

That finally earned you a glance, quick and annoyed, before she turned back to her search. "I don't know. Two?" she snapped, voice rising just enough to make it clear she was irritated with the question. Then, under her breath, sharper still, "Where the fuck are they..."

You narrowed your eyes. Two. You knew her well enough to know it wasn't two. Her voice had that looseness in the edges, her body a little too quick, a little too reactive. Not sloppy, not wasted—but not untouched either.

"It's not safe, Tara," you pressed, stepping closer. "It's not far—we can just walk and come back for the car tomorrow."

She didn't answer right away. Instead, her hand finally caught on something, and she yanked the keys free from her pocket with a jagged motion. They clinked loudly against each other, the metallic sound sharp in the night. She turned then, facing you more fully now, her eyes glinting in the dim streetlight.

"I'm not drunk," she said firmly. "Not even tipsy."

You just gave her a look. The kind of knowing, unimpressed look that said I don't believe you for a second.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Look."

And before you could ask what she meant, she planted her weight on one leg, lifting the other off the ground in a clumsy kind of balance test. Her arms spread slightly like she was daring you to comment. She wobbled once, her body tilting just a hair, but she caught herself fast and stayed steady. Then, with a little flourish, she dropped her foot back down, smirking at you like she'd just proven her case in court.

"See?" she said, a grin tugging at her mouth.

Before you could reply, she reached out and caught your hand, twisting it lightly in hers—a playful motion, not quite rough but still assertive. "Come on, don't be such a prude. Live a little!"

You felt your mouth open, words ready to come out, but she cut them off with a tug. "Come on."

And just like that, she was pulling you again, but this time it wasn't the sharp, angry grip from before. Her fingers tangled with yours instead, warm and firm, guiding you the last few steps to her car.

When you reached it, she finally let go, dropping your hand as she slipped to the driver's side. With a quick motion, she unlocked it, yanked the door open, and climbed in. The metal creaked under her weight as she slid behind the wheel, keys jingling in her hand before she shoved them toward the ignition. The door slammed shut, cutting you off from her for the first time since she'd appeared in the crowd.

You stood there on the curb for a moment, the cold biting into your bare legs, trying to decide if you were actually about to let this happen. Every part of you knew better—knew she'd had more than "two," knew the smart move would be walking, knew Sam would kill you both if she ever found out. But your brain, fogged with alcohol and the kind of reckless buzz that came with it, kept hunting for reasons why it was fine.

It wasn't far. Maybe ten minutes, fifteen tops. The streets were dead quiet at this hour; hardly any headlights passed, and the chance of cops circling around this part of town felt slim. You weren't in New York or L.A.—this wasn't some place crawling with late-night patrols.

And Tara... Tara wasn't stumbling. She wasn't slurring. If anything, she seemed sharper than half the people still inside that house.

And the longer you stood there weighing it, the more you realized you were already leaning toward giving in. She always had that effect on you, bending your no into something softer until it snapped into a yes. Maybe that was just easier than fighting her when she got like this.

Fine, you told yourself. It's just one ride. Just one time.

With a final exhale, you rounded the car and tugged open the passenger door. The interior light blinked on for a moment, harsh and yellow, catching the curve of her grin as she watched you slide in. The leather seat met the back of your thighs, shockingly cold against your bare skin where your skirt rode up. You hissed quietly at the contact, shifting to settle in.

When you shut the door, the sound felt final. Contained. Like the two of you were sealed off from the rest of the night. Tara was still smirking, that look of hers that wasn't just victory but delight—pleased she'd won, pleased you'd caved, and more than that, thrilled by the fact that it was wrong.

She loved this—the small rebellions, the choices that made your chest tighten because you knew you shouldn't. And she loved it even more when you came along with her.

The keys jingled in her hand before she jammed them into the ignition, twisting with a sure flick of her wrist. The engine roared awake, low and steady, a vibration running through the frame beneath you. Tara leaned back in her seat, eyes forward, her grin settling into something subtler but no less smug.

Her hand slid to the gearshift, fingers tapping once like she could already feel the road opening up for her.

Then she shifted cleanly into reverse, her arm sliding back along the back of your seat as she twisted to glance over her shoulder. The movement was so practiced, so natural, that you almost forgot she'd been drinking.

The car rolled backward down the short stretch of gravel, crunching softly under the tires, before she swung the wheel and eased you both out onto the street. The house disappeared behind you, music still thumping faintly through its walls, but it was fading now, muffled the farther you pulled away.

You sat back, arms folded loosely in your lap, watching the night blur by in fragments through the window. Rows of parked cars lining the curb, the dim orange wash of streetlights, trees heavy with leaves that stirred faintly in the wet autumn air.

You knew this route by heart—it wasn't complicated, just a few turns and a straight shot home. Familiar enough that it almost lulled you, every block a reassurance that you weren't actually making some terrible mistake by letting her drive.

And the truth was, she didn't look drunk. Her hands were steady on the wheel, her gaze sharp, focused. She stopped where she needed to stop, accelerated where she should, no weaving, no hesitation. The drive was smooth, controlled, almost too controlled—as if she wanted to prove a point.

It worked. You felt yourself easing, the worry that had gnawed at you in the driveway loosening its grip. Maybe you'd been dramatic about it. Maybe she really was fine.

Then Tara glanced over at you, eyes pulling from the road, that nasty smirk curling across her mouth again. It was sharp, deliberate, the kind of expression that made your stomach twist because it wasn't just about her driving—it was about you. About winning.

Her gaze dragged over you, slow and consuming, like she was scanning every inch of skin the skirt left bare. Her eyes lingered, taking their time, and when they met yours again she didn't bother disguising the hunger behind them.

"You look so hot in that skirt," she said, her voice low but clear, each word carrying a weight that made your chest tighten.

Heat rushed through you instantly. It always did when she said things like that, when she stripped away the room, the night, the noise—leaving just you under her focus. A smirk tugged at your lips before you could stop it, your own words sliding out to meet hers.

"Glad to hear you say that, 'cause it's yours."

Her smirk widened, eyes darkening like a shadow had passed through them. "Even better."

She flicked her attention back to the road, only briefly, before her right hand left the gearshift and found your thigh. Her palm was warm against your skin, sliding just enough to make your breath hitch, her fingers brushing up and down in a lazy caress. Her eyes cut back to you, that grin still tugging at her mouth.

"It's sexy when you wear my clothes," she murmured, her hand squeezing firmly now, nails pressing just enough to make your pulse quicken.

"Yeah? Maybe I'll make it a habit."

Her smirk shifted into something darker at that, like you'd just given her permission she'd been waiting on. Tara's eyes lingered a beat too long, dragging over your face with that sharp, unreadable intensity before she finally turned back to the road.

"Good," she said, voice low but threaded with satisfaction. "I'll hold you to that."

Her hand stayed heavy on your thigh, grip flexing every so often, not letting up even as the car moved on. The steadiness she'd had pulling out of the driveway wasn't quite there anymore—the line of the car dipped just slightly too far toward the curb before she corrected, like she hadn't fully registered the drift. She didn't notice, and neither did you at first. Not with her thumb stroking along the hem of your skirt, her nails grazing the skin underneath like she couldn't decide if she wanted to soothe or scratch.

The town slipped past around you, shadows of houses with their porch lights still glowing, a string of neon bleeding out from the twenty-four–hour gas station at the corner.

You passed a faded billboard half-collapsed into the trees, and the glow of a diner sign flickered once, then disappeared in the rearview. Every now and then, the car rolled over a crack in the asphalt and the vibration traveled straight up through her palm into your skin, sharp enough that it made you hold your breath for half a second.

But Tara didn't slow down, didn't adjust her hand. She just drove with one arm hooked around the wheel and the other holding onto you like you were hers to steer too.

The road bent into one of those short, loopy turns you both knew were coming, the kind that forced even sober drivers to focus. The car tilted just slightly with the curve, headlights flashing over damp pavement and the skeletal outlines of trees. Tara kept her grip steady on the wheel—but her other hand didn't stay still.

Her fingers inched higher, slow and deliberate, until they slipped beneath the hem of your skirt. The brush of her knuckles against bare skin sent a hot jolt through you, one that only sharpened the longer she lingered.

"Tara."

You didn't even glance at her, your eyes locked on the winding road ahead, but the edge in your voice carried enough weight. Scolding, warning, the kind of tone she'd learned to recognize instantly.

She flicked her gaze toward you, mouth twitching like she was about to laugh. "What?! Can't I show affection for my girlfriend?"

Finally, you turned your head, catching the exaggerated innocence on her face. The smirk hiding underneath it. You rolled your eyes, the warmth creeping up your neck doing nothing to help your case.

"Not when you're supposed to be driving," you shot back, your voice flat in that way you used when you knew she was enjoying herself too much.

Your hand slid down to hers, fingers curling around her wrist, and you pushed her touch back to safer territory on your thigh. She let you guide her down, but the smug curve of her mouth only deepened, like you'd just confirmed what she already knew—how easy it was for her to get under your skin.

Only a few seconds passed before her hand crept back, the tips of her fingers brushing higher up your thigh like she hadn't learned a thing. Like she couldn't help herself. Your head snapped toward her, an incredulous breath caught in your throat.

"Tara!" You tried to sound stern, but your voice wavered halfway between scolding and warning.

She grinned like that was the reaction she'd been waiting for, eyes flicking from the road back to you. "What? I'm driving perfectly fine."

"You promised—"

"I never promised." She cut in fast, smirking wider, her fingers daring higher still. "Don't act like you don't like it. You'd shove me off harder if you really wanted me to stop.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes even as heat flared in your chest. "You're impossible."

"And you're blushing." Her voice came out sing-song, like she was scoring points in some game only she knew the rules to. She leaned back against the seat, smug satisfaction dripping from her tone, but her gaze didn't linger on the road like it should have. It lingered on you, drinking in the way your body stiffened under her touch.

You pushed her hand down again, sharper this time. "Eyes forward."

She laughed, soft but taunting, tilting her head toward you like she couldn't resist. "You like bossing me around. Admit it."

Her eyes lingered too long. The stretch of road ahead curved slightly, a lazy bend lined with trees that loomed black against the night sky. Her headlights swung wide, painting the trunks in harsh white light, shadows darting across asphalt.

And then—suddenly—there was someone.

A figure stepped into the glow, so sudden it was like he'd been conjured there.

Mid-twenties maybe, messy jacket, his posture loose like he'd had too much to drink.

He froze under the flood of headlights, eyes wide, mouth parting as if he meant to shout. But the sound was lost in the roar of the engine, in the sharp squeal of rubber as Tara's hands jerked the wheel.

"Tara, watch out!" The words tore out of you before you even knew they were coming. Your chest slammed against the seatbelt, hand flying out like you could actually stop the car yourself.

"Shit!" Tara barked, her voice cracked with suddenness, raw, like it tore right out of her throat. Her whole weight slammed into the wheel as she jerked it hard.

The car jolted, a violent snap that made the frame groan, and the tires screamed—high-pitched, grating, a shriek that filled your skull. The sound rattled through the glass, through your bones, so loud it felt like it was inside your head. The car lurched sideways, the smell of burnt rubber already stinging the air.

You grabbed for anything—seat, door, dashboard—but nothing held. Your breath caught, broke, came out in short bursts as your chest locked tight. The world was just noise and light, headlights stretching too far, too bright, until they landed on him.

They swallowed him whole. His pupils looked blown wide, black and unnatural, his skin pale like wax. For a split second it was just him against the light, locked in that look—terrified, completely stuck, like he didn't even know how to move. His foot slipped back on gravel and instead of carrying him out of the way, it pitched him right into the car's path. His arm came up, bent awkward at the elbow like he could block it.

He looked wrong in the light, his whole body stunned in that split second, skin waxy, every line of his face carved into something desperate. Fear was written there, raw and unmistakable—the kind of fear that didn't have time to beg.

His feet staggered on the uneven edge of the road, his heel skidding against gravel. One wrong shift of balance, one tiny slip, and it sent him into the headlights instead of away from them. His arm jerked up, elbow crooked, like a shield that would never be enough. Flesh and bone trying to stand against steel.

The hood hit him first. The sound wasn't like in movies, not a clean crash—it was thick, solid, sickening. You felt it all the way through the seat. His body rolled up the hood fast, slamming into the windshield so hard the glass cracked in a spiderweb right in front of your face. Shards popped loose, scattering like tiny splinters of light across the dash.

For the briefest second his face was right there, framed in broken glass and headlight glare—eyes blown wide, mouth twisted. And then the car threw him further.

The windshield bloomed with cracks as his body slammed into it, glass splintering in a sharp spiderweb pattern, shards scattering with a pitchy, crystalline snap. For half a second his face was right there in front of you, smeared by light, twisted in shock.

"Fuck—fuck—fuck!" Tara's voice broke, coming fast, frantic, but absolutely powerless.

Her grip locked white-knuckled on the wheel, arms shaking as the car fought her, bucking against every command. The tires shrieked again, louder, burning rubber clawing at the pavement, filling the night with smoke and sound.

But his body didn't stop moving. The momentum dragged him up the hood, over the glass, his weight pounding against the roof with a hollow metallic boom. It rang through the car like a bell, low and brutal, rattling the frame, rattling your ribs. For one awful heartbeat he was there—his silhouette against the stars, suspended above you, like time itself had frozen.

Then he was gone.

The world snapped forward, fast and merciless. His body vanished into the dark behind the car, flung back like gravity had claimed him. You didn't need to see where he landed—you could hear it. The crunch of bone against asphalt, sharp and final. The dull slap of flesh meeting ground. A sound that didn't echo, because echoes return. This one just stayed.

Your breath was still stuck, your chest refusing to move, your eyes glued wide to the broken windshield, to the faint scatter of glass glittering like stars against the dash.

Then Tara's foot found the brake.

The car lurched forward like a living thing, jerking hard, your body snapping into the seatbelt so viciously it bit into your chest. Your stomach flipped up into your throat as the world pitched.

The tires shrieked again—long, endless, a banshee wail of rubber grinding itself down to nothing. The wheel shook violently in Tara's grip, the whole car rattling so loud it felt like your bones might splinter with it.

It shuddered to a stop, jerking once more before it finally went still. The silence after was wrong, thick, filled with nothing but the rattle of the engine struggling against idle and the sharp, ragged sound of both your breaths. Your chest burned, seatbelt still biting hard, like it had left its shape carved into you.

Your whole body whipped forward, seatbelt biting hard into your chest, stomach wrenching up into your throat. The wheel screamed under her grip, rattling so hard you swore it might tear itself out of her hands. The tires shrieked again, long and raw, dragging the car into a shuddering, violent stop that made every part of you jolt.

Silence followed, heavy and wrong. Just the rattle of the engine at idle and the sharp, ragged drag of your breathing. The windshield was split through, glittering faintly in the glow of the headlights. Your chest burned, still pinned by the seatbelt, the impression of it biting into your ribs like it had carved itself into you.

The smell of smoke and rubber filled everything. Tara's hands were still welded to the wheel, knuckles blanched, the slightest tremor running through them. You couldn't bring yourself to speak.

The sounds hadn't left—the boom of his body against the roof, the crunch of him hitting the road—they were still in the car with you, playing over and over until it felt like they might never stop.

"Oh my god"

———

3 YEARS LATER

The clock above the counter ticked louder at night, like it knew how empty the place was.

Grease lingered in the air, faint but stubborn, sinking into the booths no matter how many times they were wiped down.

The smell of coffee that had burned hours too long clung just as hard, sharp in the back of your throat, like it had permanently soaked into the walls. Sometimes it felt like no amount of scrubbing could ever really make the place clean—it was too lived-in, too tired to pretend otherwise.

The tile underfoot had been polished to death once upon a time, but the shine was long gone. Now it carried dull scuffs, old stains rubbed flat into the grout, the kind of wear you only got from decades of late-night shifts and drunks who dragged their heels on the way out. Even the counter had grooves carved into it, tiny knife marks from kids who'd sat there years back and scratched their initials when nobody was looking.

The neon sign outside stuttered against the glass, buzzing red in uneven bursts. It bled across the chrome napkin holders and the metal trim of the counter stools, made everything look like it was under water. The sign hummed just enough to press into your ears, mixing with the low drone of the refrigerator in back. Between the two of them, the silence never really went still—it just held.

On the tables, the laminated menus curled at the edges, peeling like they'd been left in the sun too long. Salt shakers left a faint crust on the tabletops whenever someone set them down too hard, and the ketchup bottles always felt sticky no matter how often you wiped them. Even when the booths were empty, they looked occupied—crumbs trapped in the seams, the faint shape of someone's weight still pressed into the vinyl.

It wasn't glamorous, and it wasn't comfortable. But you knew every sound, every smell, every corner like they belonged to you.

By this hour, you'd only had about seven people drift in since your shift started—most of them the kind who barely looked at you long enough to order. A pair of truckers had taken up a booth early on, boots scuffing against the floor as they split a plate of fries and laughed about some story you didn't bother following.

Then there was the old man who always came in around nine, sat at the counter with his newspaper folded twice over, and left exact change with his coffee cup. A couple passed through not long after, too wrapped up in each other to notice anything but the fact that the pie case was half-empty.

It was the others that stayed in your head—the ones who lingered on you just a little too long. The woman with the pinched face who asked for her check faster than she'd finished her drink.

The two college kids who whispered, but not quietly enough, shooting glances like they wanted you to hear the word they wouldn't say out loud. They left their half-full sodas sweating on the table and walked out without touching the food.

Nights were easier than days for that reason.

You'd asked for the shifts, and your boss hadn't thought twice about it. He never really learned his staff's names, not properly—he cycled through "kid," "pal," or "sweetheart" depending on the day. To him, you probably just seemed like another restless night owl, the type who didn't mind empty booths and a slow trickle of customers. It was easier to let him think that.

The truth was, fewer eyes meant fewer chances.

Fewer chances to hear the scrape of chairs when people left too abruptly, fewer chances to catch the hiss of murderer slipped under someone's breath on their way out.

Daytime left too much space for that—parents with kids tugging at their sleeves, people recognizing your face just long enough to remember what they thought they knew about you.

Out here in the quiet, with the neon buzzing and the clock ticking loud enough to set its own pace, you could pretend the world had stopped looking.

You were bent over the counter with a rag in hand, smearing circles into a surface that already shone more than it needed to. Closing time was about half an hour away, the kind of stretch where the minutes dragged longer than they had any right to. The booths sat empty, napkin holders stacked too neatly, ketchup bottles lined like soldiers waiting for an inspection that never came.

The bell above the door gave its usual broken rattle, half ring, half cough, like it was on its last string but no one had the heart—or budget—to fix it. Nobody really wanted it fixed anyway. That noise was the diner's way of saying someone had arrived, even if it sounded more like a complaint than a welcome.

You didn't have to look up to know who it was. She always came around this time, slipping in while the place was dead quiet and the lights hummed like they were tired of being on.

Kirby.

Hair tucked back, jacket too heavy for the weather—like she was cut from the same tired fabric as the diner itself.

You finally glanced up from the counter, a rag still dangling in your hand. "Hi there," you said, the words paired with a small smirk—more for her sake than anything else, like you were trying to make the place feel less dead.

She answered with just a nod, the kind that carried more weight than a whole sentence, before sliding her hands into the pockets of her jeans. "Slow night?" she asked, voice dipped in sarcasm as her eyes flicked to the row of empty booths like the punchline was sitting right in front of her.

"Busiest I've ever seen it," you shot back, not missing a beat.

Kirby huffed something close to a laugh before pulling one of the bar stools out with her foot, dropping into it like she'd been doing this forever. She leaned against the counter, elbows settled on the surface you'd just wiped down, like this spot was hers as much as yours.

Her visits had worked themselves into a kind of pattern you didn't need to question anymore. Every few nights, just as the clock started limping toward closing, the door would rattle with that half-broken bell, and there she was. No menu, no small talk, no fuss. Just Kirby taking up space like she belonged here more than anyone else, and you letting her, because it was the only predictable part of your shift.

You didn't bother asking what she wanted. The mug was already under the machine before she'd even pulled the barstool out, steam curling up as the place filled with the sharp scent of espresso. Her order never changed—double shot, splash of cream, one sugar. No more, no less. She'd told you once, offhand, that it was strong enough to keep her awake but not strong enough to make her hands shake. Said it like a joke, but the kind of joke people slip in when they're not really joking.

You'd remembered, of course.

She never thanked you for knowing, and you never pointed out that you did. The routine was just there, stitched between you like muscle memory.

Most people had stopped showing their faces around you after everything, but Kirby... she never wavered. She didn't act like she was doing you some favor. She didn't ask questions she knew you wouldn't answer.

She just showed up every few nights, sitting in the same spot like this was only about caffeine. But the way her eyes tracked you across the counter—steady, a little too deliberate—told you it wasn't.

It wasn't charity, not exactly. But it wasn't just coffee either.

You knew why she kept coming back. Not because she ever said it out loud—Kirby wasn't the type—but because she didn't have to. The way she lingered after hours, the way she watched you more than she watched the clock, it was obvious enough.

Maybe she thought she was being discreet. Maybe she thought you didn't notice. But you weren't stupid.

You knew what people thought about you, what they whispered when they passed this place and saw you behind the counter. Kirby was the only one who didn't flinch, didn't avoid your eyes.

The mug landed in front of her with a soft scrape across the counter. You slid it over like it was nothing, then went back to drying cups, stacking them one by one just to keep your hands moving. The diner was too quiet without that kind of filler.

"Seven customers," you said, setting a cup upside down on the rack. "Three of them teenagers who thought they were subtle with their phones."

Her brow twitched, just enough. "Subtle as in...?"

"As in one of them had the flash on." You picked up another cup, cloth working slow circles. "They left without ordering."

Kirby blew on her coffee, watching the steam instead of you. "Charming."

You shrugged like it rolled right off you. People had their ways — some wouldn't look at you when you set their plate down, others kept their phones tilted just enough to sneak a picture. All of it was easier to act numb to than explain.

Kirby finally looked at you, resting her chin on her hand. "You ever think about telling them to go to hell?"

You gave her a flat smile, setting the cup down a little harder than you meant to. "Every night."

Kirby chuckled under her breath, not loud enough to break the quiet, just enough to acknowledge your answer. Then the sound slipped away, leaving the diner in that familiar hush. The overhead light buzzed faintly, the coffee machine giving a low hum. The only real noise was the clink of glass against glass as you stacked cups, cloth working in steady circles just to keep your hands from sitting still.

"Do you ever do anything besides this?" she asked eventually, casual enough, but the look she gave you was too sharp to match the tone.

You turned your back on her, shoulders stiff as you reached for another stack of plates. The question hung there for a moment before you tossed it aside. "Depends," you muttered, lips twitching faintly. "Does breathing count?"

Kirby smirked into her mug, the rim touching her mouth before she bothered answering. "Just saying you're the only person I ever see in this town who never leaves the same square footage."

You placed the plate down a little too neatly, like it mattered, then leaned against the counter with your arms crossed. "Maybe I just like these four walls. Cozy, don't you think?" It landed like a joke, but some kind of honesty bled through whether you wanted it to or not.

She didn't push. She just tipped her head, blonde hair slipping forward, and took another sip. "So I won't be seeing you down at the Miller place this weekend?" The way she said it was teasing, like she already knew the answer.

A snort slipped out of you before you could stop it. "What, you expect me to show up undercover? Blend in with the keg-stand crowd until someone slips and you have to bust it up?"

That earned you an amused little glance over the rim of her mug. She set it down gently, her fingers lingering on the handle. "No. I'd just rather not see you mixed in with a bunch of drunk kids if it gets that far."

You didn't answer, and she didn't wait for one. Kirby knew better than to expect you at a party — that was like walking into a trap with a neon target strapped to your back. You'd be eaten alive before you even touched the doorframe.

The diner fell into one of its familiar quiet spells. The only sound was the faint clatter of dishes as you busied yourself behind the counter — glass against glass, the scrape of porcelain stacking too neatly. The TV above the register filled the air with its usual background hum, volume turned so low it barely fought against the buzzing of the old lights.

It always played the same handful of things: local news that looped the same two stories for hours, commercials so outdated you could quote them, and those endless blocks of reruns that blurred together after the third watch. You'd learned to tune it out — until you couldn't.

Kirby leaned back slightly on the stool, eyes drawn up toward the screen like the flicker alone was enough to hold her attention. You followed her glance without meaning to, catching the tail end of some garish talk show — canned laughter, a joke you'd already heard three times this week. It cut to a commercial, then shifted into the late-night slot you knew too well. "Movie of the Week." Cheap licensing, grainy resolution, but familiar enough that you recognized the opening credits before the voiceover announced it.

Your hands stilled without your permission. A dish towel hung loose between your fingers as your gaze flicked up, catching on the first sharp line of dialogue that slipped past the static. Something about it softened your face, the kind of quiet recognition you didn't realize showed until Kirby's attention slid back from the TV to you.

She clocked it instantly.

"You into stuff like that?" Her voice was casual, almost lazy, but her eyes were sharp.

You blinked, the spell breaking. "What?"

She nodded toward the TV, not bothering to explain further. The faint glow lit the edges of her hair, and her mouth curved like she'd caught you somewhere you hadn't meant to be.

"No." The word came out sharper than you planned, clipped and flat. You grabbed another glass from the drying rack, twisting the towel around it like the extra friction might erase the slip on your face.

A beat later, you backpedaled, shoulders hitching with a half-shrug. "I mean... yeah, I guess."

You set the glass down a little too carefully, like it might break if you didn't. Then you picked up the next one, slower this time, dragging the cloth over its rim just to give your hands something to do. The hum of the fridge filled the space you left, the clock ticking loud enough to underline your hesitation.

"The only thing they had in juvie was movies," you muttered finally, not looking at her. Your tone was dry, like you were describing bad weather. "Cheap DVDs, scratched all to hell. Half the time the sound cut out, so you had to fill in the lines yourself."

The corner of your mouth tugged, not quite a smile, not quite bitter either. "Nothing makes Fast & Furious 4 funnier than hearing it through a busted speaker in a room full of people who hate each other."

You went back to drying, stacking cups with exaggerated care. Like you hadn't just offered her the first unguarded piece of yourself all night.

Kirby didn't flinch at the word juvie. Most people did. You were used to the way shoulders stiffened, or voices dropped, like they'd just been handed a piece of evidence against you. She just nodded at the TV again, calm as if you'd only said you'd been grounded once.

"You know that one?" she asked, chin jerking toward the screen.

You glanced up for barely a second. The movie was Good Will Hunting, playing in one of those chopped-up TV edits with bad cuts for commercials. You knew the part instantly—the park bench scene, Robin Williams talking quiet and heavy, the kind of monologue people quoted without ever really getting it.

"No. Not really." The towel twisted tighter in your hands, damp against your fingers. And then, before you could stop yourself: "I had a friend who wouldn't shut up about it though."

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, small, uninvited.

Kirby's brows furrowed, the confusion there immediate. "Friend as in Tara?" She said it like the pieces didn't fit—because they didn't.

Everyone knew Tara Carpenter wouldn't go near a movie that wasn't blood-soaked, screaming, gut-twisting horror.

You scoffed, too fast, sharp enough to cover the sting of the name. You'd trained yourself out of tensing every time someone said it. "God, no."

Another glass clinked down harder than needed, your smirk faint but there. "Friend as in... some guy online. We talked movies. He liked this one. A lot."

The words drifted out like steam, heavier than you meant, curling in the quiet before you could pull them back.

Kirby didn't rush to fill it. She just leaned back in the booth, coffee in hand, eyes narrowing the slightest bit like she was inspecting you more than the story. Not judgmental, not even nosy—just trying to measure what the smile on your face meant.

"That still a thing, or...?"

You scoffed before you could help it, a sound meant to brush it off. "No." The word landed flat, edged with a sigh that tried too hard to make it casual.

You set the towel down and shifted to the counter behind you, finding busy work in a cluster of salt shakers that didn't need straightening. Your back to her now, like the glass jars suddenly required your full attention.

"Guess the news reached wherever he lived," you muttered, voice low enough it almost got lost under the hum of the TV. A shrug followed, too quick, too careless to be real. "Either that or he just... got tired."

Your fingers fumbled with a shaker lid, tightening it until the metal squeaked. "Didn't help I wasn't exactly—uh—open to all his... attention." The word slipped sharp, clipped, like you'd skimmed past something without wanting to name it.

Another shrug. "Didn't even know his real name anyway."

You nudged the stacked cups closer to the wall, like the extra inch mattered. Kirby shifted in the booth, her sleeve brushing the Formica as she leaned back. The coffee cup sat between her hands, the rim leaving a faint ring on the table she hadn't bothered to wipe. Her eyes stayed on you, steady enough to feel but not sharp enough to sting.

"People online are always a coin flip," she said finally, tone flat but edged with the smallest curve of amusement. "You lucked out he wasn't a total psycho."

The corner of your mouth twitched, caught between a laugh and a scoff. A sound pushed out of you anyway, half-bitter, half-relieved, before you shook your head and bent over the counter again. The rag slid over the laminate, back and forth, catching on a sticky patch you'd already scrubbed raw.

Conversations with Kirby never really ended. They drifted until the words thinned out, replaced by the hum of the TV overhead and the clink of glass or silverware you moved just to fill the air. Sometimes she'd ask something sharp, sometimes you'd throw something careless back, but it always leveled out into this—quiet stretches that weren't awkward, just suspended.

She lingered over her coffee long after it had gone cold, and you pretended to stay busy long after the place was already clean.

By the time the clock dragged closer to closing, her mug was nothing but dark dregs at the bottom. She pushed it away with the same tired scrape of porcelain every time, slid out of the booth without ceremony, and offered you a goodnight that was closer to a nod than a word. The bell over the door gave its tired jingle, and then it was just you again.

The diner settled back into itself the moment she was gone—the fluorescents buzzing too loud, the TV flickering through scenes no one was watching, the empty booths holding only the faint smell of burnt coffee and grease.

You moved slower once the door shut behind her. It wasn't really about cleaning anymore; it was about stretching the time until the lock clicked and you had to step back into the silence outside. You stacked plates into uneven towers, let the faucet run longer than it needed to, wiped down the same patch of counter until the rag came back clean and dry.

You checked the napkin holders even though you knew none of the teenagers had bothered using them. Coins rattled faintly as you emptied the tip jar—mostly loose change, a couple of crumpled bills—before tucking it into the drawer that already felt too light.

The last step was always flipping the sign. Open to Closed. The glass pane hummed faintly when you pressed it back into place, like the sound belonged to the building itself. You lingered with your hand against the doorframe for half a second before finally locking it.

Outside, the night was colder than the air inside, but it carried less weight. The parking lot was empty except for a lone car you didn't recognize, condensation fogging its windows. You pulled your jacket tighter and started the walk, shoes tapping out a rhythm that felt too loud in the quiet.

You never took the straight way home. Habit, maybe. Or just the need to make the walk longer, so it didn't feel like going from one box to another.

You cut through the side street by the laundromat, its neon sign half-burned out, humming blue against cracked brick. A block later, you passed rows of houses that weren't really houses—long, low rectangles with peeling paint, each door spaced evenly like it belonged to a motel.

Some windows were covered with heavy blankets instead of curtains, others left glowing with the dim blue of old TVs.

You kept your eyes forward. You knew which porches creaked, which dogs barked behind fences, which lights flickered and which stayed dark no matter the hour. It was all background noise, as familiar as the buzz of the diner lights.

Your place sat near the end of the row, one of those squat rectangles people passed without really looking at. The siding had been painted over so many times it looked more patchwork than uniform, thin strips of old color bleeding through where the weather had chewed at it. It wasn't much, but that was part of the point. No one expected you to live anywhere better. No one wanted you closer.

The porch light above your door had been busted since you moved in, leaving the wood steps in shadow. You didn't bother fixing it. The dark made it easier not to see the stares when people passed by, easier not to catch what they muttered under their breath.

The word had been there for weeks now, scrawled in red across the wall just beside your door.

Murderer.

You didn't know if it was paint or marker—some days it looked glossy, others it looked faded and cracked, like it might wash away if the rain ever hit it right. You hadn't tried to scrub it off. Letting it stay almost felt easier than proving how badly it stung.

Your key stuck in the lock before turning, the same resistance it always gave, like even the door wanted to make you fight your way in.

The door swung open with a hollow creak, and the first thing that hit you was the smell. Faint smoke clinging to the air, woven into the fabric of the couch, the curtains, even your jacket slung over a chair.

You hadn't noticed it much anymore—just another thing that lived here, like the thin carpet or the crooked blinds. The place wasn't big: one narrow room stretched into a kitchenette, a second door hiding the bathroom you kept meaning to scrub down. Cheap wood paneling, corners stained darker where leaks had left their mark.

Somewhere down the row, a couple was fighting again. Same muffled shouts you'd heard a hundred times, cutting through the walls like the place didn't believe in privacy. You dropped your bag on the counter and leaned against it, rubbing your temples. That sound never went away; it was like background static, drilling into you every night until you stopped noticing—except on nights like this, when you couldn't help but hate it.

The apartment was cold, too. Heat barely sputtered through the vents this time of year, leaving the air heavy with autumn's damp chill. You tugged your jacket tighter instead of trying to fight it.

The TV was still on, screen glowing with some cheap local station. A voiceover was hyping up "the wildest Halloween weekend yet," cutting to shaky footage of kids in plastic masks flooding the streets. A corner graphic advertised some haunted bar crawl, flashing neon pumpkins and skulls like it was supposed to look fun.

You stood there for a long moment, listening to the neighbors shout, breathing in the smoke, staring at the TV like it might make the room warmer. And then the thought landed: maybe slipping into one of those parties wouldn't be so bad. Cover your face, get lost in the crowd, let the noise drown this place out. Maybe even get shitfaced enough not to care about the rest of it.

And suddenly, going to that party didn't feel like such a bad idea.

———

"You've basically turned into a nun,"

"What, no hook-ups? No flings? You're killing me."

Mindy had said, smirking from the edge of Tara's bed.

It had spiraled from there—Chad appearing in the doorway with his hands raised like he was breaking news. "Wait, seriously? None?"

Then Anika joining in, laughing so hard she nearly spilled the soda she'd been drinking. By the end of it, Tara was red in the face, rolling her eyes so hard it hurt, insisting she didn't care, that she wasn't interested , that maybe she liked keeping to herself.

But it didn't matter. They'd already decided she was going.

She hadn't wanted to—she'd barely dropped her bag in her room of the apartment before Mindy was already leaning on her doorframe, rattling off plans about a party.

Her first night back home, Tara had argued—she deserved to stay in, maybe order takeout, pass out early. But Chad appeared two minutes later with that grin he thought was persuasive, and Anika wasn't far behind, chiming in that Tara needed to get laid, seriously, it was getting pathetic.

And that was how she'd ended up here.

She tried rolling her eyes, tried insisting she wasn't in the mood, but by the time a drink was pushed into her hand and someone had stolen her jacket "so she couldn't change her mind," the fight had drained out of her. That was how it always went with the four of them—resistance didn't last long.

The party was packed wall to wall, every room too hot, too loud, reeking of beer and cheap perfume. Tara let herself get pulled through the crowd, Anika laughing at something Mindy said, Chad already half-gone from whatever he'd chugged before they even left. Tara followed, half present, half wishing she'd just stayed behind in her pajamas.

Everywhere she looked, there were costumes—sloppy ones, clever ones, ones thrown together with more confidence than effort. Angels with crooked halos, devils with glittery horns, half the guys in blood-streaked masks that looked like they'd been bought last-minute from a drugstore.

The air was humid with sweat and perfume, fake cobwebs sagging from the ceiling, black-and-orange streamers drooping where people had already knocked into them.

Mindy had shown up as some kind of vampire, teeth already crooked from the plastic fangs but selling it anyway with a cape she'd borrowed from Anika. Anika herself was in glitter and sequins, cat ears perched in her curls, eyeliner sharp enough to kill—she pulled it off effortlessly. Chad, of course, had gone as a football player, which was basically just his regular clothes plus a jersey he never wore to practice.

Tara hadn't planned a costume. She'd said she wasn't going, so why bother? When she admitted as much, Mindy had rolled her eyes and told her to just dress hot and claim she was a hooker.

Tara hadn't dressed hot—she'd tugged on the closest thing she had to "trying," skirt that actually fit and a black top that wasn't too worn. It was what she'd told Mindy was the closest thing to a hooker she owned, but Mindy had only snorted and waved it off before dragging her out the door.

Now, squeezed into the kitchen, Tara leaned against the counter while the others fell into their own rhythm. Chad was telling some story too loudly, Anika laughing into her drink, Mindy cutting him off with jokes sharp enough to make him flinch. The smell of beer clung to the floor, mixing with something sweet—spilled candy, maybe, or the punch that had sloshed over onto the counter.

Tara wasn't really listening. She just nodded when she had to, smiled when it felt expected. Mostly she was relieved the attention had shifted. No more jabs about how she hadn't slept with anyone yet, how she was wasting her college years. For the first time all night, she could just disappear into the background noise.

She hoped it would stay that way until it was late enough to go home. The clock on the microwave above the counter glowed just shy of midnight, proof that they'd already been here close to an hour. Long enough for the music to blur into a headache, for the air to feel thick with heat and bodies.

But her wishes didn't hold out for long.

Mindy eventually let out a loud, exaggerated sigh, rolling her eyes mid-story like Chad had finally bored her into submission. She turned toward Tara, yanking the cheap plastic vampire fangs out of her mouth with a pop so she could be heard over the noise. "Alright, T," she said, grinning like trouble. "Back at it."

Tara knew what that meant. Mindy's eyes were already sweeping the kitchen and bleeding into the living room, hunting targets. Tara rolled her own eyes and shook her head. She hadn't had nearly enough to drink for this game. She wasn't even close to tipsy, and there was no way in hell she was letting Mindy pick her a one-night stand while she was stone sober.

"Mindy, I'm not—" she started, but was cut off.

"There," Mindy interrupted, pointing across the room at a guy leaning against the fridge. He wore a cowboy hat and a plaid shirt that didn't fit right, a red solo cup dangling loosely from his hand. His belt buckle was enormous, glinting under the kitchen light.

Tara snorted. "Yeah, no. I don't do farmhands."

Mindy grinned, unbothered, already scanning for her next pick. "Fine. What about her?" She pointed this time at a girl dancing with a group near the stereo, hair dyed a bright streaky blue, fishnets under cutoffs, eyeliner smudged like she'd slept in it.

Tara glanced once before scoffing. "I'm gay, but I'm not that gay."

Mindy only shrugged, unoffended, like she had an endless list to cycle through. A second later her finger darted again, this time toward a tall guy in a toga. The sheet was already half undone, hanging dangerously low on his hips, plastic laurel tilted on his head. He was laughing too loud at his own joke.

"Absolutely not," Tara muttered. "I don't hook up with people who think Animal House is still funny."

"He'd at least be good in bed," Mindy countered, sipping from her drink without missing a beat.

Tara groaned, dragging a hand down her face, but there was a ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth.

"Come on, Tara," Mindy pressed, leaning in close like she couldn't let this go. "You've got to find somebody at least interesting enough. Otherwise you might as well just slap the word virgin back on your forehead and call it a day."

Tara shot her a flat look, but Mindy wasn't joking anymore—or, at least, not only joking. She actually tilted forward, squinting past the kitchen into the living room as though she were on a mission. The movement made her stumble a little, cape nearly tangling around her legs. She caught herself on the counter, cackled under her breath, then steadied her focus again like a drunk detective.

Tara was half a second away from excusing herself, claiming she needed the bathroom just to escape the whole ordeal, when Mindy's hand landed warm and solid on her shoulder. She tugged her just enough to pivot Tara's view toward the crowd.

"There," Mindy said, pointing.

At first, Tara didn't bother. But then her gaze landed on the girl Mindy meant—someone standing near the folding table that had been turned into a makeshift bar, back turned to the kitchen. She was pouring herself a drink, punch dripping from the ladle into a red solo cup, dark sleeves pulled low over her wrists. A mask covered the top half of her face, simple but striking against the mess of her hair.

Tara blinked.

For a second, she felt that low, hot tug in her chest—surprise at the way her stomach tightened, her gaze caught. It didn't happen often. Almost never, really.

The girl wore a fitted black skirt that clung when she leaned forward, hem brushing mid-thigh, paired with a thin sweater tucked in at the waist.

Hair had been curled, strands catching the dim light like she'd actually put time into it, and a thin band circled her head, some kind of lazy nod to a costume. The boots she wore made her legs look longer, steady as she shifted her weight while pouring the drink.

It was the curve of her back first—clean lines, easy posture, nothing forced. Then the shape of her waist, the way her hair spilled over one shoulder when she tilted slightly. Tara's eyes stayed longer than she meant them to, tracing over details she normally wouldn't care about.

Because she didn't usually feel things like this, not with strangers, not just by looking. And especially not with girls—at least, not with this kind of sharp, unignorable punch in her stomach.

She exhaled slowly, annoyed with herself, because there was no denying it.

Fuck. She was hot.

And the longer Tara stared, the worse it got—her chest tight, her thoughts too aware of how her body reacted before her brain could catch up.

She didn't even notice how long she'd been looking until Mindy's grin cut into her peripheral vision, wide and triumphant, like she'd just cracked a case.

"I knew it!" Mindy burst out, practically bouncing where she stood.

Tara blinked, startled out of her thoughts. "What?"

Mindy's hand clamped down on her shoulder again, shaking her hard enough that Tara's drink nearly sloshed over. "Go on. Make your move. Talk to her!"

Tara barked out a laugh, scoffing as she shook her head. "Are you insane? I don't even—"

"Yeah," Mindy answered immediately, no hesitation, like it wasn't even a question. She gave Tara a shove toward the crowd, but Tara barely budged, only rocking forward onto one foot before stubbornly planting herself back in place.

"I'm not gonna—" Tara started, but then Mindy shoved her harder, both palms to her back this time. Tara stumbled forward with an undignified noise, catching herself on the edge of the counter before she went sprawling into the crowd.

She twisted back to glare, cheeks burning.

Mindy only raised her eyebrows and smirked, the look sharp enough to be a dare.

She let herself be shoved forward because it was faster than arguing. Fuck it, she thought, a small, ridiculous mantra—if it went badly she'd blame the booze later, even though she wasn't that drunk. Anything to make Mindy shut up. Anything to stop the hamster-wheel of "pick somebody" that had been grinding at her for the last half hour.

Up close, the girl looked even more effortless than she had from across the room. The curl at the nape of her neck fell loose when she leaned, the band over her hair catching the kitchen light, the black skirt sitting just right.

Tara registered details like a camera: the neat line of the boots, the hollow of the wrist where a bracelet might have been, the way the sweater tucked in at the waist so it hinted at shape without trying.

For a second Tara was ridiculous enough to think the girl probably had a whole other life where she smiled with her teeth and the world apologised for being boring. Tara felt suddenly small, like she was showing up in yesterday's clothes and failing to keep pace.

She could almost hear the internal monologue she'd never let show: everyone thought she was confident, the one who arrived and made rooms lean in. At college she was the rumor and the punchline and the girl who didn't need permission to have fun. Here, she'd been thriving—parties, late nights, a string of stories she could put on a résumé if she wanted to seem dangerous.

People liked her. Guys texted. Girls winked. So she hated the idea of looking like a second-guesser now, some chick who'd shrink back at a glance. The thought of walking away and letting people whisper what happened, Carpenter? felt worse than being shoved into something dumb.

Panic and pride fought in her chest. Her mouth went dry; she told herself to step back, to laugh it off, to take the easy exit to the bathroom. But that—being the girl who left—felt humiliating in a way that stung. Mindy's hand was still warm on her shoulder, the implicit dare heavy. She had a reputation to uphold, however hollow the promise felt in the soft press of the room.

So she forced her feet forward. She told herself a lie—you'll blame it on the drinks if you have to—and leaned in close enough to hear herself say it before she could boot the stupid impulse away.

"So, uh... what are you supposed to be? Besides... hot?"

The words tumbled out like something she'd heard in a bad movie. She flinched the instant they were out, squeezed her eyes shut, and had the small, immediate urge to slap the back of her own head. Her face flamed with that particular, idiot flush of embarrassment—the kind that said she already knew she'd just ruined whatever half-chance she pretended to want.

The girl's shoulders lifted once, a small shift that looked almost like a chuckle caught under her breath. She finished pouring her drink without hurry, the stream of red punch slowing before she set the ladle back into the bowl with a neat clink.

"I see you still haven't gotten any better at flirting, huh?"

Tara recognized that voice before the words even finished leaving it.

Like a match struck in the dark, it lit her nerves, unmistakable in a way that made her stomach jolt and her throat tighten.

Oh fuck.

It was instant—the kind of recognition that didn't crawl up slow, but detonated, flooding her veins with heat and ice all at once. Her chest clamped tight, like her lungs had forgotten how to expand. The room blurred at the edges, voices and bass fading into a muffled throb that only made the silence between them louder.

Her body betrayed her—heart skipping hard, knees locked, every muscle wired like she might run and yet completely frozen. Her throat burned, the start of a swallow caught halfway, useless. She felt like she'd been slammed out of her own skin, a step behind herself, watching the slow-motion horror of what was unfolding.

Panic bloomed so fast it was dizzying. Disbelief tangled right through it—not here, not now, not her. She couldn't process it, couldn't even stack the feelings in order. Shame pressed up hot against her ribs. Fear darted sharp under her tongue. Disorientation spun through her head, colors too bright, sounds too far away.

And under it all—betrayal, raw and deep, not from the girl standing there but from the universe itself, cruel enough to pull this trick.

When she turned fully, Tara's stomach dropped. The mask was delicate, laced black and glittered, curling over cheekbones and framing the eyes like something out of a different century. It should have hidden you. Should have given her room to pretend.

But it didn't.

She knew those eyes—of course she knew them. She'd known them in classrooms and hallways, known them in silence and laughter, known them too well to ever mistake them for someone else's. She'd dreamt them into her sleep sometimes, when she'd rather not. A mask wasn't going to erase that.

It was you.

The voice had already gutted her, but your eyes sealed it, a match for the ones burned into her memory. They met hers now without surprise, without anger or sadness either—just steady, unreadable. Maybe a little red, but unreadable all the same.

That made it worse.

You used to be easy to read—too easy, expressive in every shift of your face. Tara had once been fluent in you, every glance and sigh a language she understood. And now she looked, and it was like staring into something smooth and closed off, no door left open for her.

Her chest knotted. Her breath hitched. Outward, she froze in place, body gone rigid. Then came the stammer—her lips parting, closing again, fumbling for words that wouldn't arrive. She tried to school her face, tried to build a mask of her own, something that would pass for collected. But she could feel the betrayals—heat flooding her cheeks, the sharp burn in her stomach, the way her throat squeezed shut.

Inside, it was the same storm it had always been with you: that horrible tug in her gut, that undeniable rush that said she still felt something, still reacted, no matter how hard she willed it away.

And looking into your eyes—unreadable, unbothered—it only twisted deeper.

"Y/N." The name ripped out of her before she could stop it, plain surprise bursting raw in her voice. Too loud, too naked. Tara's stomach clenched the second it was out, heat flooding her ears. She scrambled, forcing her mouth to keep moving, to patch it over with something—anything.

"You... you're still in town?"

It came out shaky, uneven, as if saying it could rewind the mistake of saying your name first. She hated herself for asking, hated herself more for needing to. What if someone had heard? What if eyes turned toward them and read all the history she was trying to bury? Still, under the shame and panic, the question pulsed real—she did want to know.

Your reaction only tightened the knot in her chest. At first, your gaze flicked away, scanning the crowd, the doorway, the kitchen—like you were checking if anyone else had heard. The music was too loud, everyone too caught up in their own orbit, but Tara noticed the way hesitation cut into you all the same.

And then, just as quick, it was gone. The hesitation, the crack. That confident mask slipped neatly back into place, expression smooth, unreadable again. You even let your eyebrows lift, a loose smirk tugging at your mouth, like it hadn't rattled you at all.

"Yeah," you said simply, but there was weight under it—something too heavy to be casual. "Not exactly wanted anywhere else."

The words landed like a stone in Tara's stomach. It wasn't defensive, wasn't self-pitying—it was matter-of-fact, the kind of truth spoken without care for how it might sound. Maybe you didn't even mean for it to sting, but it did. She knew what you meant, what was underneath. The world didn't line up for girls with records. Colleges didn't open their doors wide. Options thinned fast when your name carried baggage.

Tara's chest ached, shame folding in on itself. Because she understood. And because it wasn't her place to ask.

You lifted your cup then, taking a long sip. For a second, Tara thought she imagined it—the faint tremor in your hand as you tipped the drink—but the knot in her chest tightened anyway. She didn't know what to say, what could possibly land right after what you'd just dropped. Her throat was dry, words caught.

She didn't have to find one.

You swallowed, smirk edging back onto your face like armor, and tilted your head at her.

"What, hoping I'd be gone?"

Tara's stomach lurched. Heat flushed her cheeks as if she'd been caught, flustered and defensive all at once. Her mouth stumbled to keep up, tripping over itself.

"No! No—I just—"

The chuckle that slipped out of you cut clean through her fumbling. Light, amused, almost cruel in its ease. "I'm kidding."

But it didn't feel like a joke to Tara. Not with the way her pulse thundered, not with the way the floor seemed too unsteady beneath her feet.

But it didn't feel like a joke to Tara. Not with the way her pulse thundered, not with the way the floor seemed too unsteady beneath her feet.

For a moment, silence sat heavy between you, pressing down until she could hear her own heartbeat in her ears. She shifted, fingers curling tighter around her cup, the words she'd fumbled out still echoing stupidly.

And then you broke it, voice smooth, like you were just making conversation.

"So... I've heard you've been living it up at college."

Tara blinked. For a split second, it didn't register. The words felt strange, not like they belonged to her, not like they should've been in your mouth. Her chest pinched, confusion twisting across her face before she could iron it away.

"Blackmore, right?"

Her eyes snapped to yours, instinctive, the way someone reacts when they've been caught off guard. Her brows knit, lips parting like she was about to ask how you knew. And you recognized that look instantly—you always had.

"Word gets around fast," you added lightly, tilting the cup back to your lips.

The sip was casual. The weight behind it wasn't. Because she knew exactly what you meant—word had gotten around about you too. The whispers, the headlines, the gossip that had followed her halls and lived in the corners of her mind.

It stung.

"Yeah... it's fine." Tara forced the words out, a brittle shrug in her voice that fooled no one, least of all you. "I mean, it's just college."

Thin. Unconvincing. The crack in her tone gave her away, and she knew it the second it left her mouth.

Her body betrayed her too—the way her grip tightened around the cup, knuckles blanching, shoulders pulled taut like she was bracing for impact. Her heartbeat still thudded unevenly in her chest, pounding against her ribs like it wanted out.

She hadn't even let herself believe it was you standing in front of her until now.

The music was still pulsing somewhere in the background—bass vibrating through the floorboards, people laughing, shouting, cups clattering in the kitchen—but all of it blurred. Everyone else blurred. Her focus tunneled, locked to you, and no matter how badly she wanted to look away, she couldn't.

She'd dreamt of this. God, she'd thought about it a thousand times—what she'd say if she saw you again, what she'd do. She'd even thought about visiting you back then, when you were serving your time. The thought had kept her up at night, tugging at her chest. But the reality always won out: her reputation.

The carefully built mask of the innocent girl everyone pitied, the girl people felt guilty for dragging into the world of a girl like you. She couldn't risk that—not then. Not ever.

Not that you would've wanted her there anyway.

But still—there was so much she wanted to ask. How are you? Are you okay? Did you ever miss her, even a little, the way she sometimes found herself missing you? Those nights in her dorm when it was dark and quiet, when there wasn't a party or alcohol to drown it out—she'd lie awake, replaying how it should've been. You there beside her, not here, not this. Why aren't you?

Her mind spun with questions she didn't have the right to ask. Too many of them weren't even about you—they were about her. Selfish things.

Did you still hate her? Did you believe the things she'd said back then? Did you know how much of it she'd only said because it was what people expected her to say? Because it was easier to lie, to follow the crowd, to build a story she could tell herself on repeat until it felt true.

Except now—looking at you, real, steady, beautiful and utterly unbothered—that story crumbled. She couldn't cling to it, not with you standing here, not with your eyes on her.

Her chest squeezed, panic fluttering in her throat. And before she could stop herself, her mouth opened again, desperate for words, for anything to break the pressure.

"I was—"

She faltered. Swallowed. Tried again.

"I've been—"

Nothing. Just fragments, half-built bridges she couldn't cross. Every sentence died on her tongue before it could become something whole.

She tried again anyway, desperation clawing through the hesitation. Her hands lifted, gesturing sharply the way they always did when words failed her, trying to shape the sentence out of thin air. Her pulse drummed in her throat, and this time she was sure she could force it through.

"I've been thinking—"

The end sat there, hovering, just one breath away. About you.

Except this time it wasn't her that cut herself off.

It was a scream.

It came from outside, raw and gut-wrenching, slicing straight through the music. Both the front door and the balcony stood open, letting it carry through the house clear as glass.

And for one fractured second, nobody moved.

A couple tangled together on the couch broke apart mid-kiss. The beer pong ball bounced uselessly off the table, forgotten. Someone froze halfway through tipping a shot back, glass clinking to the counter.

For a second, the entire party held its breath.

Then the silence collapsed.

Voices rose—confused at first, then sharper, piling into panic. Chairs scraped back, drinks toppled, feet scrambled. A chorus of what was that? who screamed? oh my god, what happened? rose all at once, overlapping into chaos.

The first person to push through the crowd flinched back and gagged; another vomited into the gutter. Phones were out in a dozen hands, cameras already capturing the scene with mechanical dispassion. Someone barked for someone else to call the police. Someone else—probably the host, face whiter than the porch light—fumbled keys and locked the back door, a useless gesture of containment while a dozen people craned for a better look.

Bodies lurched into motion. People shoved through the kitchen, toward the door, toward the windows, toward anywhere but here. Elbows dug in, hands grabbed wrists, friends pulling friends through gaps in the crowd. A cup splattered sticky beer across the floor, someone slipped and cursed, someone else screamed only because everyone else was screaming.

You and Tara were the only ones who didn't move.

The room bent around you like water breaking around stone, people rushing and clawing to escape, but you stayed planted. Tara's pulse thundered as her eyes caught yours. You weren't screaming, you weren't running—you just looked confused.

She knew that look. The way your brows pinched in beneath the mask, the way your eyes darted fast, sharp, trying to piece together what you were missing. You always chewed at the inside of your cheek when you didn't understand something, and she saw the faintest tension in your jaw now. Even after all this time, after everything she'd told herself she didn't remember, Tara could still read you like a page she'd memorized.

But you weren't looking at her.

Your gaze tracked the rushing figures instead, scanning the crowd, searching for someone you could stop—someone who might actually tell you what was happening. Every face you caught was wild-eyed, too panicked to register yours. Their momentum shoved you and Tara closer, shoulder to shoulder, only for another wave to drag you half a step apart again. Someone slammed into your back, shoving you forward, and you staggered right back into Tara's space before catching yourself.

Finally, you snagged an arm. A girl dressed in a cheap satin corset and mouse ears—straight out of Mean Girls—jerked to a halt. Her face was pale under the house's bad lighting, eyes wide and glassy, chest heaving like she'd sprinted from the devil himself.

"What's going on?" you demanded, voice cutting through the chaos.

The girl stared back at you with wide, glassy eyes. Her breath hitched like she'd run a mile, words tumbling out in fragments, too fast and too shaky to feel real.

"Someone's saying it's a dude—like, actually dead in a car out front."

Her voice cracked on dead, the word almost choking her. She lifted a trembling hand and pointed toward the nearest doorway that led out toward the street, as if the gesture alone made it true.

Saying it out loud seemed to strip the last of the color from her face—she looked paler, almost sick, her mouse ears trembling slightly with the shake of her head.

Tara's entire body went cold. The noise of the party dulled into static in her ears, replaced by a pounding that made her throat close. Heat rushed through her skin at the same time nausea twisted deep in her stomach, dizzy and disorienting. There was no way. No way that could be real. Not again.

Her eyes snapped to you.

Your lips had parted, stunned, the disbelief plain even beneath the mask. Your hand fell from the girl's shoulder, fingers curling uselessly at your side. That was enough to break her—she stumbled back, whispering "Oh my god, oh my god" under her breath before spinning away. She shoved herself into the river of people flooding for the exits, disappearing fast into the chaos.

And then it was just you and Tara again—your silence thick, the words still hanging in the air like smoke.

Tara's palms were slick, fingers twitching against her sides. Half of her wanted to shove through the chaos, out the front door, just to prove it wasn't real. To see someone laughing, pulling off a mask, shouting "got you!" the way everyone secretly hoped this was. But no one laughed. No one broke the tension with a punchline.

The screams outside didn't stop.

She forced her eyes back to you. You looked—steady, almost. Your face was unreadable, every muscle locked in place, the kind of composure you used to hide behind when you didn't want anyone to know what you were feeling. But Tara caught it. The tiny betrayals. The way your lips had parted, the faint shake at the corner of your mouth. The tremor in your fingers when she glanced down at your hand still clenched around the red cup. You were frozen. Not untouched—just hiding.

Around you, the party had fractured into pieces of chaos. A girl clutched her phone to her ear, sobbing as she shouted at a 911 dispatcher that no one could get to the car, that people were everywhere. Someone else was doubled over near the sink, heaving into a half-full beer pitcher. A group of guys shoved toward the hallway, their bravado cracked by panic as they cursed at everyone to get out of their way.

The music still played—tinny, upbeat, horribly out of place.

Tara felt dizzy, the edges of her vision swimming, and still she couldn't look away from you.

Her stomach roiled, a hot, sour nausea curling in her gut, the same kind that had bent other people double around the room. A guy in the corner had his arm braced against the fridge door, retching into a half-crushed Solo cup, his friends shouting at him to move while their own faces were pale with terror. Tara thought she might follow him any second.

Then—light.

A faint glow pulsed through your black top, bleeding from where you'd tucked your phone into your bra. The screen faced outward, casting soft blue-white against the thin fabric, and Tara's gaze snapped to it before she could stop herself. The sight made heat rush to her cheeks—because of course, looking at your phone meant looking there.

You felt it vibrate, a muted hum against your skin, and looked down at the glow at the same time she did. Her throat tightened as you reached for it, sliding it free with practiced ease. She tore her eyes away, pretending to scan the room, pretending not to notice.

The phone's light painted your face when you lifted it, a cold brightness that caught on the faint purple-blue streaks threaded in your hair. It glowed against your lashes as they fluttered with every blink, shimmered across freckles she hadn't remembered being so sharp, so many. Tara found herself leaning in, searching your skin for new constellations, stupidly desperate for proof of the time she'd lost.

Then your eyes widened. Not just widened—stretched, sharp with fear, with disbelief. Your lips parted again, silent this time, and Tara's chest clenched at the recognition: something was wrong.

Instinct pushed her closer—just one step, but enough to see. She leaned in, shoulder nearly brushing yours, gaze dropping to the screen before she could stop herself.

Her heart and stomach crashed together, collapsing in a single violent drop. The words stared back at her, simple and devastating, stamped across the message thread from an Unknown Number.

She hadn't touched the radio. Didn't even think to. It felt wrong to fill the silence with anything fake. Not tonight. Not here. The sound of the rain was enough. Steady, restless. It hit different parts of the car in different rhythms — softer on the side windows, harsher on the windshield, almost muffled near the mirrors. Like it was creeping in from every direction.

The heater had been running low for a while now, humming out warm air that didn't quite reach her hands. It carried the scent of that stupid vanilla air freshener she bought last month on impulse —it was one of those bulky ones you plug into the vent — something she picked up from the little aisle at CVS where they keep snacks and cheap crap you don't need.

She hated the scent now. Too sweet. Too fake.

But she never unplugged it.

It mixed with other things, too. Like the faint rubbery scent from the floor mats that were always kind of damp this time of year. And shampoo — not hers. That soft, clean kind you used that lingered forever after you'd been in the passenger seat. The scent was barely there now. But every once in a while, when the heater shifted, it caught in the air again — and it made her chest pull tight without warning.

There was a sweatshirt crumpled in the backseat. Yours. You left it after that night at the lake — the one where it got cold out of nowhere and she made fun of you for wearing shorts in October.

She'd meant to return it. She should've returned it. She'd meant to. Really. But it ended up staying right where you dropped it — half-tucked into the corner like it belonged there. She told herself it was just until the next time she saw you. And then there wasn't a next time.

The heater hummed low, filling the space with a dull kind of white noise. One of the vents ticked every few seconds — a tiny, uneven sound that she'd tuned out for months, but suddenly couldn't stop hearing.

Somewhere near the floor, an empty water bottle rolled when she shifted her foot. A gum wrapper was wedged under the brake. The kind of quiet, everyday mess that she used to pretend bothered her, even though it never really did. It just made things feel lived-in. Comfortable. Like a space you'd come back to.

Now, everything felt untouched. Preserved, almost. And it made her stomach turn.

The windows had started fogging again in the corners, catching the porch light from your house in this blurry, watery glow. It lit the edge of the driveway, the curb, the tree with the missing branch — all the same things it always had. But from here, it felt farther away.

She used to park right at the edge of the walk. Crooked. Too close to the grass. Like she didn't care because she knew she'd be coming inside.

Tonight, she had parked down the street.

And for some reason, that hit her the hardest.

The engine had been off for a while, but the radio stayed on — just barely. Turned so low it was almost just static with shape. Some quiet, aching song she didn't recognize. Female vocals. Soft. Repeating the same line like it meant something.

Tara wasn't really listening. Not to the lyrics. But she could feel the weight of the voice bleeding into the space between you, pressing at the edges of her thoughts like fog on the glass. Something about the way it sat just below hearing made everything feel heavier. She could've turned it off. But she didn't.

Her fingers had curled against the steering wheel at some point — not tightly, just tense enough that her knuckles had started to pale. She forced herself to loosen them, dropping her hand to her lap instead, where it hovered awkwardly like it didn't know what to do with itself. Her palm was warm and slightly damp from the heat in the car. Or maybe just nerves.

She shifted her weight a little, legs crossed at the ankle, shoulders pulled in tight like she could make herself smaller without anyone noticing. She hadn't looked over yet. Not really. Just once, earlier — a sideways glance so quick it barely counted.

But she felt you there. The shape of your presence in the passenger seat. The way your body heat changed the air. The way your silence wasn't empty — it was specific. Solid. Like a wall.

It was strange how much space one person could take up without moving.

The faint smell of your shampoo was stronger now. Or maybe it was just in her head. She breathed in anyway, slow and quiet, as if you might hear her inhale and think she was doing it on purpose.

The song on the radio shifted — or ended. She couldn't tell. Something piano-heavy came next. Older. Sadder.

Tara blinked down at her hands. Her thumb started fidgeting again, rubbing small circles into the fabric of her jeans like it would keep her from slipping into whatever this moment was turning into.

She should say something.

She knew that.

But her mouth stayed closed.

The car felt smaller by the minute. Not physically — just tight. Airless. Like the silence was thick enough to shrink the space between you inch by inch. The windows had fogged again, dimming everything outside. You could still see the glow from the porch light, but even that looked distant now. Blurred.

Tara stared at the dashboard like it might help her figure out what to say. Like there'd be instructions printed somewhere between the gas gauge and the cracked phone mount she hadn't bothered to replace. But all she saw was the faint reflection of her own face in the dark screen. She looked tired. Paler than usual. Jaw clenched like she was bracing for impact.

The heater clicked softly, once, and then kept blowing warm air into a space that didn't feel warm at all.

Why did I ask her here.

The question pressed into her brain before she could stop it. Not with anger — not even with fear, really. Just that heavy, sinking feeling that came with knowing she might've made something worse just by touching it again. Like reopening a cut that had already scabbed over.

She said she just wanted to talk. That's what she texted.

Just talk. That's it.

But now you were here — really here — and you hadn't said a word. Hadn't looked at her. And she was realizing just how far away you already were.

You sat perfectly still, your arms folded like armor, your face turned slightly toward the window. Not out of curiosity. Just avoidance. You didn't even pretend to relax. Everything about you was closed off. Careful.

The kind of careful that only comes after trust has been broken.

Tara's fingers twitched again against her thigh. She could feel the space between your bodies like a fault line. Too close. Too quiet. And there was nowhere to hide from it. Not in this car. Not with the doors shut, the engine off, and the rain still whispering across the glass like it was marking time.

Every breath she took felt too loud. Every movement — even the smallest ones — felt like they risked breaking something.

She was the one who asked for this.

She wanted to fix things.

But now, trapped in this little capsule of memory and silence and regret, she wasn't sure there was anything to fix.

Or if you'd already stopped hoping she would.

Tara turned her head slowly — like moving too fast might make you vanish. Or look back. She wasn't sure which would hurt more.

You were still angled toward the window, the porch light casting a soft, amber edge across your cheek. And for a second, all Tara could do was look. Really look.

Your hair was loose, draped over one shoulder, the strands at the ends still damp from the rain. You hadn't done it on purpose — she could tell. You always tied it back when you wanted to look good. But this... this was something else. This was you showing up because she asked. Nothing more.

You wore sweatpants and a loose, gray top that slipped slightly off one shoulder, exposing the soft line of your collarbone. It didn't match anything about the way Tara had overthought her own outfit for this. You hadn't planned. You hadn't tried. And somehow, you still looked beautiful.

There was mascara still clinging to your lashes. Barely. Just enough to mean something. You always took it off before bed — she remembered that. Said you hated how your face looked without it. That it made your eyes feel small. Like a kid's. You didn't want to look young when you didn't feel it.

It was stupid, maybe, but Tara liked your face best like that.

Your fingers were curled against your thigh, nail polish chipped at the edges. Dark red — not fresh, not messy. Just worn. A color that should've looked too harsh, but didn't. It suited you.

And your bottom lip... bitten. Faintly swollen.

Still wet like you'd just dragged your teeth across it without thinking.

Tara's chest tightened.

God, you looked like you.

And that hurt more than she was ready for.

She shifted slightly in her seat, exhaled slow — tried not to sound shaken. She didn't even realize she'd been holding her breath until she spoke.

"...Thanks for coming."

Her voice came out quieter than she meant it to. Rough around the edges. Too soft for the weight of what this was.

But it was something.

The first thread pulled.

And it was hers to tug.

You didn't answer right away. Of course you didn't.

Your fingers flexed slightly against your leg, and your eyes didn't leave the window. Like maybe if you stayed looking out, you could pretend this wasn't happening. That she wasn't sitting there beside you like a ghost with her mouth full of half-meant apologies.

Tara instantly regretted speaking.

Why had she said that?

Like this was some casual favor. Like you'd dropped by because you wanted to. 

It wasn't like you had a choice.

Not really.

You were always like this. Always too nice. Always saying yes to things that hurt. Especially when it was her asking.

And Tara?

She had gotten used to it.

Used to you showing up. To you forgiving quickly. To the way you bent for her, even when you shouldn't have.

Even when she didn't deserve it.

Back when things were still... good, she used to think it was your softness that made her feel safe. But now — in the wake of everything — she wasn't sure if it had really been softness, or just something harder. Something more painful. A kind of silent endurance she hadn't recognized until it was too late.

You were too nice.

That was the problem. Always had been.

You never liked saying no — especially not to her.

God, she had gotten so used to that.

To you saying yes.

Even when she didn't deserve it.

And now, here you were again. In her car. In the dark. Saying yes with your presence.

Tara looked down, rubbed her palms against her jeans. They were damp. Her hands were sweating again — great. She pressed her thumb hard against the edge of her fingernail, picking at a hangnail she hadn't noticed until now.

She wanted to speak again — to fix the mess her first words had already made — but when she looked up, your head had finally turned. Just a little. Just enough that she caught the corner of your mouth curve into something soft.

That smile — that soft little curve of your mouth she used to crave.

It came and went in a second.

So quiet, it almost didn't register.

But she caught it.

And it wasn't real.

It was the kind of expression that would've fooled anyone else. It was barely there, tired at the edges, gentle enough to look real if you didn't know better. But Tara did. She knew the exact way your mouth pulled when you were genuinely happy. She'd memorized it once — long ago.

This wasn't that.

This was nothing like that.

This one was fake.

She knew it immediately.

And she knew why.

Tara blinked, dragged in a slow breath, turned her head toward the windshield again. The rain hadn't let up. It rolled down the glass in waves now, a low hiss underneath the soft, static-wrapped hum of the radio.

She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, cleared her throat quietly.

"How're you holding up?"

The second it left her mouth, she wanted to take it back. To shove the words between her teeth and swallow them whole.

She watched you hesitate.

A breath.

A blink.

Then you shifted your eyes forward, like answering would be easier if you didn't have to look at her.

"Getting through it. I guess."you said quietly, voice barely lifting.

You shifted in your seat, like even answering had taken something out of you. Then — after a breath — you added, "Things usually figure themselves out eventually, right?"

You laughed a little after saying it — low, humorless, clipped at the end like you regretted even giving it that much air.

It burned in Tara's chest.

That voice didn't quite belong to you.

Not the version she knew.

Not the one that used to say those same words while nudging her shoulder or tugging on her sleeve — teasing her when she spiraled, cradling her in all the ways she didn't know how to ask for.

But this wasn't comfort. This wasn't for her.

This was you patching the silence.

Trying to stay civil.

Trying not to make it worse.

And of course you would.

Of course you'd say you were getting through it. That things would work out. That it would all eventually make sense, smooth itself over, heal.

Tara could've guessed your answer before she even asked.

Because you were always like that.

You never said when things were falling apart — not really. Not even when they clearly were. You didn't break down, didn't snap, didn't accuse. You just... smiled. Said something easy. Made sure everyone else could breathe.

You'd done that for her too — especially for her.

And Tara used to love that about you. That gentle hope, that endless patience, that way of believing it would all somehow be okay.

She used to wish she was like you.

Used to think she'd be okay, as long as you were in the room saying things like that.

But now it just felt like watching a fire go out — slow, quiet, and impossible to stop.

And the worst part was that she'd seen this exact version of the world before.

Not this car. Not this rain. But this feeling — the one curling cold in her chest like recognition. The air too still. Her hands in her lap, useless. The space between you widening even when she wasn't moving. It was like sitting in a rerun of a mistake she already made, watching herself play it back in real time. Same silence. Same sick ache. Same helpless certainty that she'd broken something she wasn't going to be able to fix.

It was never just one moment with you. It was always the build-up — the pattern she couldn't see until it was too late.

She spoke too late. Said the wrong thing too fast. Let you drift too far, thinking there'd be time to reel you back in later.

And now later was here. And she was still speechless.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw you shift. The smallest thing — barely a movement — but she felt it like a wave.

And then the blinking started. Quick, shallow.

You blinked. Once, then again — too fast, too deliberately. Pressed your lips together in that tight way that made your whole face look a little too still, like stillness might keep everything from spilling over. Then you turned your head — just slightly, just enough. Not away, not entirely. But enough to keep your voice steady if you had to speak. Enough to hide your face if it broke.

You didn't cry. Not really. But you were trying not to. And for you, that meant something. That meant everything. Because Tara had seen you hold it together through worse without flinching. So the fact that your body had to work this hard just to stay even — it landed like a punch in her stomach.

And for one stupid second, Tara's hand twitched toward the door handle. Like she should leave — make it easier, give you air, give you space. Like maybe she was the thing choking the oxygen out of the car.

Get out. Leave. Give her space.

She wanted air. She wanted silence to swallow her.

But she didn't move. She couldn't.

Because even if she wanted to disappear, she wanted more to stay.

Even if it felt selfish now.

God you deserved so much more than this.

More than the weight of her silence. More than the shattered pieces she only ever tried to sweep under the rug.

More than a relationship so full of hesitation and second chances it had already started to rot.

More than her.

And maybe that was love. Or maybe it was just the slow, painful understanding that she'd known what you needed and still failed to be it.

She looked at you — really looked — and the guilt settled in like something permanent. Something earned.

Because for all the times you'd handed her grace, all the soft nods and easier outs, she never stopped making you need them.

And she still hadn't said a thing.

She hadn't meant to talk again.

Not yet.

You weren't saying anything, and she figured she deserved that. The silence. The ache. The restraint it took for you to sit there and not scream.

But it was the worst part, somehow — the not-screaming.

Because you should've. She would've taken it.

She would've let you dig her grave with your words if it meant she could crawl in it with some kind of dignity.

Instead, you blinked through it. Like always.

Like her silence didn't gut you.

Like her damage hadn't reached that deep.

And it made something snap in her — not loud, not sharp. Just that soft, exhausted collapse of a wall that couldn't stand any longer.

"I—" she started, then stopped. Her voice cracked on the vowel, and for a second she almost didn't bother continuing. But the quiet was too thick. And your head was still tilted toward the window like you could disappear into it.

"You look good," she said finally. Low. Awkward.

And so, so stupid.

Your reaction was immediate. A scoff. Quiet — but not quiet enough. It sounded like disbelief and salt and breath you'd been holding too long.

Tara flinched. Not dramatically. Just a small jerk in her shoulders, like a thread pulling tight behind her ribs.

Because God. That wasn't what she meant. That wasn't what you needed.

Why the fuck had she said that?

Compliments? Really?

When you looked like you were trying not to shatter? When your mouth was trembling and your eyes were glassed over and her fingerprints were all over the wreckage?

She stared down at her lap, fingers pressing hard into the edge of her sleeve.

That's not what she meant.

She meant you look like you're holding yourself together with string and spit and I can't believe I did this to you.

She meant you look brave.

She meant you look like the version of yourself I used to love and the one I'm not sure I still deserve to know.

But all she could say was that you looked good.

Like an idiot. Like a coward.

And the worst part was that she wasn't sure you didn't know exactly what she'd meant anyway.

"That's not what I meant," she said suddenly, too fast, too late.

Your head didn't turn, but your shoulders stiffened — barely.

"I mean—" she exhaled sharply, blinked once. "I didn't bring you here for that."

There was a beat where she hoped she'd stop there. Let the sentence fall, let silence carry the weight. But she didn't. She couldn't.

"I know this is..." Her fingers curled into her sleeves, tightening. "I know I don't deserve to say anything to you. I know that."

It came out stiff and cracked, like the words had been frozen over and she was trying to chip them free with bare hands. She wasn't rambling — not quite — but each word landed before she could think it through. Like she'd opened a valve somewhere in her chest and now the pressure wouldn't stop leaking.

And still, you didn't say anything.

Not right away.

Then softly — tired, and not unkind, but heavy in a way that made something sink behind her ribs.

"Then why am I here?"

Tara froze.

It was a fair question. A logical one. It should've been easy to answer.

But that was the thing with her — she never thought these things through.

She texted you because it felt unbearable not to. She parked further away like that would make it easier. She played music on low volume like it would drown out the guilt.

And now she had you sitting there, barely looking at her, a question in your voice that deserved more than whatever excuse she could string together.

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

And that silence — that lack of anything — it said more than she ever could. It curled between you like smoke, thick and sour, and heavy.

You shifted again, slower this time. The movement sounded louder in the quiet, like your jacket scratched too much against the seat, like the air had gone thinner somehow.

"Why did you ask me to come out here?" you asked again. Not angry — not really. You were trying to be, maybe, but the sound didn't come out sharp.

It came out shaky.

And Tara didn't need to look to know a tear had slipped down your cheek. She could hear it in the breath you took — shallow, uneven, held in too long.

And she hated herself for it.

For every inch of this.

For asking you to come.

For not knowing what to say when you did.

For making this feel like the same thing all over again.

Because maybe it was.

And maybe you'd finally stopped hoping it wouldn't be.

Tara's mouth opened again. Nothing came out.

What could she say?

There was no version of the truth that didn't sound selfish. No way to explain without it reeking of guilt, or regret, or the kind of manipulation she swore she wasn't trying to pull. You'd heard it all before — the sorrys that didn't stick. The excuses that felt more like her trying to comfort herself than you.

She didn't want this to be that again.

But she didn't know how to make it anything else.

She looked down at her lap, watched her fingers twist the hem of her sleeve like that would help.

"Because I miss—"

Her voice cracked.

She stopped. Bit it back.

No.

She couldn't say she missed you.

Not because it wasn't true — it was true, more than anything.

But because it hadn't looked like it.

Not when she ignored your texts for two days.

Not when she said she was too tired to come over, only to post from a party ten minutes later.

Not when she let you walk away that night without stopping you — not once.

Saying she missed you now felt cruel.

Felt like adding insult to a wound she made.

So she swallowed hard, started again. Quieter.

"Because I—"

Her voice faltered again. She hated that it did.

"I need to explain..." she managed. Then, after a second, a breath that came out sounding more like a confession than anything else:

"And because I think I ruined the best thing I ever had."

She hadn't meant to say it like that.

Hadn't even realized she felt it in those words exactly — not until it came out.

But there it was. Bare and awful and real.

You didn't look at her.

But your throat tightened.

She saw it.

The tiniest movement — the way you swallowed hard like it hurt, like your body was holding something back that your face refused to let fall.

And your eyes — still watery. Maybe even more now.

And that... that broke something in her.

Because it shouldn't have taken this long.

It shouldn't have taken this much.

You were the best thing she ever had — and she treated you like she couldn't be bothered.

And that wasn't just guilt clawing up her chest.

It was hate.

Self-hate, thick and bitter, turning her stomach inside out.

Because this was her. This had always been her.

The kind of person who hurt the people she loved the most.

Who only said things when it was already too late.

How many times had she watched you cry?

Not just tonight — but before.

Tears slipping down your cheeks while she sat there, cold and unmoved, like it was easier not to feel than to admit she'd done something wrong.

And she hadn't even felt sorry then.

Not really.

She'd told herself you were overreacting.

Told herself it wasn't her fault.

That you were too much, too emotional, too clingy.

And then she left. Again. And again.

And now—now you weren't even crying as much as you used to.

You were just... quiet. Holding it in. Like you'd finally accepted this was what she was capable of giving, and nothing more.

That hurt more than any fight you'd ever had.

More than any tear you'd ever let fall.

Because for once, she felt it.

All of it.

And for the first time, she realized just how much she'd taken from you.

How much she'd killed without even knowing.

And then it came back.

It came back to her all at once — the night she'd ended it.

Not a blowout. Not some catastrophic explosion.

Just a slow, bitter unraveling that neither of you knew how to stop.

She remembered how tired she'd felt. Not sleepy — just heavy.

Every little thing between you two had started to feel like too much.

Not because you were too much, but because she'd convinced herself she couldn't handle it.

Couldn't handle being looked at the way you looked at her. Like she was worth something.

That was the part that scared her most.

You loved her too openly. Too clearly.

And she didn't know how to meet that kind of warmth without flinching.

So she didn't try.

She got colder. Quieter. Sharper.

The last few weeks before the end had been full of short replies and unreturned texts. Plans made and canceled. The kind of silences that felt full of invisible barbs — ones she left there on purpose, because part of her wanted to make you give up first.

But you didn't. You never did.

So she'd said it.

All of it.

"This just isn't working anymore."

"I can't keep doing this."

"Maybe you should be with someone who actually knows how to deal with your shit."

God, she hated those words now.

Even thinking them made her sick.

Not because they weren't lies — she had felt trapped, overwhelmed — but because of the way she'd used them. Like weapons. Like exits.

She didn't say them because she didn't love you.

She said them because she did.

Because you saw her too clearly, and she couldn't stand the thought of you seeing all of her. The mess. The cracks. The parts even she couldn't forgive.

So she tried to beat you to the ending.

She could still see your face.

That silence after the last word.

You hadn't shouted. You hadn't begged.

You'd just blinked. A lot. And then nodded.

Your eyes had gone red first. Not from rubbing them — you hadn't even moved — but just from blinking too fast, trying to make the tears disappear before they dropped.

It didn't work.

They slipped out anyway.

And she remembered that, too.

How she'd stood there while you cried silently in front of her — not sobbing, not speaking — and still hadn't said anything to stop you.

Still hadn't touched you.

Still hadn't taken it back.

And when she told you to go, you did.

You looked up. Then down.

And then you turned — quiet, careful — and left without another word.

She hadn't followed.

She'd watched through the window instead, half-hidden behind the curtain.

Watched the top of your head as you stepped out onto the pavement.

Watched the way your arms wrapped around yourself like a jacket that wasn't there.

Because you hadn't brought one.

You hadn't needed one — not when you thought you'd be staying the night.

You'd come with your toothbrush in your bag and a change of clothes.

She remembered seeing them sticking out, that old hoodie of hers you still wore. And now it hit her again — hard — that you'd packed for comfort, for softness, and she'd met you at the door with a knife.

You'd walked slower than usual.

Shoulders tight. Steps short.

Your breath showing in the cold night air, chest hitching from the tears you were still trying to keep in.

She had let you leave like that.

No coat.

No apology.

No hand on your arm saying "please don't."

Just the slam of a door that didn't sound final until it echoed.

And now — now in the quiet of the car, that memory wouldn't leave her alone.

It pressed against her ribs like something trying to get out.

Because she'd meant for you to go.

But she hadn't meant for you to never come back.

And yet here you were. Sitting beside her.

Still somehow close enough to see the outline of your breath on the window —but so far away, it made her feel like she was watching you from that window all over again.

You didn't say anything.

Didn't look at her.

Didn't nod, or sigh, or shift —didn't offer her even the tiniest signal that she was allowed to speak.

And that was fair. She knew that.

She didn't deserve your silence, didn't deserve anything —not after all the ways she'd chipped away at you piece by piece, until all that was left was the version of you that still tried.

But the quiet was unbearable. And she wasn't brave enough to sit in it.

So she started talking. Not explaining, not really — just... spilling.

"I was scared," she said softly, eyes fixed on her lap.

Her thumbs pressed hard into each other, like they were trying to cancel each other out.

Her voice wobbled, not quite cracking, but close.

"You were the only person who really saw me. And I didn't know how to deal with that. I didn't know how to be good to you."

She paused. Swallowed. Her jaw twitched once like she was fighting something behind her teeth.

"I thought if I let you close, you'd see all the shit I hide. And I didn't want you to see that. I didn't want you to leave."

Another breath.

Her hands moved again — shaking a little, pulling at the sleeve of her hoodie like she wanted to crawl inside it.

"So I made it easier for you to go," she whispered. "I made myself someone you should leave."

There was a heat building behind her eyes now, and she blinked fast, determined not to let it fall.

Her voice was barely holding together. Her throat scratched with the effort of keeping it even.

"I don't know how to fix things. I never have. And with you—" she hesitated, her shoulders curling in like she could make herself smaller just by folding far enough, "—I just kept fucking it up. Canceling plans. Ignoring you. Getting cold every time you tried to love me."

She let out a tiny breath — almost a laugh, but it broke halfway through.

"I don't know why I'm like that," she said. "I don't know why I always ruin the things I want most. I don't—"

Her voice cracked this time, hard and sharp, and she squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her fingertips to her temple like she could somehow shut herself up from the inside.

"I loved being with you," she said suddenly. "I did. I do. And I know that doesn't mean anything now. Not after how I treated you."

She looked down again, arms crossed tight over her stomach like she was trying to hold something in — or maybe trying to keep herself from falling apart.

Tears shimmered in her eyes, not quite falling, but there, making her blink too much, making her lashes clump and her nose go pink.

She looked like she hated herself.

Because in that moment — she did.

Every word out of her mouth sounded more pathetic than the last.

Every sentence made her chest feel tighter, her skin hotter, her stomach colder.

Like she was peeling herself open just to show you what you already knew.

And then her brain did what it always did —opened the floodgates.

Images, words, whole nights came back without warning.

No sequence. No mercy. Just everything she'd forgotten to care about when it mattered.

She saw you — on her bedroom floor during your second month together, back when things were still soft and new and terrifying.

You hadn't meant to say anything heavy that night.

You were curled up beside her with one of her blankets draped around your shoulders, barefoot, legs pulled to your chest.

You'd just laughed at something dumb she said, and then gone quiet. Real quiet.

And she remembered how she'd asked why you never wanted to go to your place — how she'd tried to make it a joke, how it had felt harmless.

But something in your expression had shifted.

She remembered the way your voice dropped when you finally answered.

Not dramatic. Not bitter. Just tired. Resigned.

You'd said it wasn't exactly home over there.

Said your dad wasn't awful but had a way of making things worse. Always had something to say. Always found the flaw.

You said it was like...like being reminded of all the worst parts of yourself even when you tried your best not to be them.

She remembered how she'd just sat there and listened, watched your fingers trace the edge of her rug while you talked, your tone low and unsteady.

And she remembered the strange ache in her chest, the sharp, complicated swell of it —because she knew how hard it was to say something like that.

Knew how rare it was for you to trust someone like that.

And you'd trusted her.

God, you'd really trusted her.

You came back home from college that first summer, and she remembered how even your smile looked tired.

How you'd said — with a shrug, not even looking at her — "I just wanna go back already."

Because there, you were building something.

There, you felt like yourself.

And she hadn't said much to that. Hadn't even thought about what it meant.

Didn't ask what being home felt like. Didn't try to make it feel safer.

She'd just nodded and changed the subject. As always.

And now, in the car, all of it was crashing back into her —that night, that shrug, the look on your face when you'd said it like it was nothing, when it should've been everything.

And what did she do?

What did she fucking do?

She built you up —

Let you unfold.

Let you open all the way.

And then she just...

Left.

Tara blinked hard, but it was no use now. The tears were falling.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

But steady. Constant. Like something had broken and couldn't stop leaking.

Her fingers clutched at her sleeves again, but even that couldn't distract her brain from punishing her with the truth.

You'd sat beside her on the floor of her dorm once, your voice a whisper,

telling her how scared you were of people leaving.

How you hated when people promised forever and then stopped trying.

And she'd said, "I'm not like that," like it was the easiest promise in the world.

But she was like that.

And she'd left.

And that's what was killing her. Not just that she hurt you.

But that she knew what it meant.

And still did it anyway.

She brought her hand up to her mouth, thumb pressing hard against her lip, trying to muffle the little breath that escaped her —that tight, pathetic sound she hadn't meant to make.

Her eyes stung. Her jaw clenched. Her shoulders hunched closer.

Because how do you apologize for that?

How do you say sorry for being someone who took more than they gave —who heard someone's fears and still chose to become them?

She didn't know.

And she was too proud.

Too proud to say sorry.

Too proud to chase after you when you walked out that night, your eyes shining with tears she refused to acknowledge.

She'd always been like that.

After every fight — and it was always her fighting, really — she never apologized.

You'd be quiet. Careful.

You'd try to soothe her, to fix things she had broken with her tone, her words, her distance.

And she'd sit in it.

Wait for the anger to fade.

Let you come back to her like you always did, like you were supposed to.

Because you always did.

Until you didn't.

The night she told you to leave — told you this "wasn't working," told you maybe you should be with someone who could "handle your shit" —you didn't argue.

You didn't cry in front of her.

You blinked hard, nodded once, and left.

And she let you.

She sat back down on the couch, scrolled on her phone.

Made herself believe she was relieved.

And for the first few days...she wasn't sorry.

That was the truth of it.

She didn't feel the guilt yet.

Didn't feel the weight of what she'd done.

She went to class. Slept in.

Told herself you'd text eventually — because you always did.

That she'd ignore it at first. That maybe she'd even move on.

But the texts never came.

And by day five, the silence started to crawl under her skin.

By day seven, she was checking your socials more than she cared to admit.

And by day ten, she couldn't eat without wondering if you were okay.

If you were crying somewhere.

If someone else was holding you now.

If you'd finally started believing all the awful things she made you feel about yourself.

By the end of the second week, it hit her so hard she almost threw up in the middle of the grocery store.

She had asked you to leave.

And you listened.

And she had nothing now.

No texts. No calls. No chance to even fix it, if fixing it were even possible.

And suddenly, the guilt came in tidal waves.

The things she said.

The way she said them.

The way you looked right before you shut the door behind you — like something had split in you, and she'd caused it.

And still, for days, she said nothing.

Because she was too proud.

Because she didn't know how to say sorry.

Because saying sorry would mean admitting what she'd been — not just that night, but for so long.

The coldness. The snide remarks. The way she twisted things to make you feel needy, annoying, too much.

But eventually, pride turned into shame.

And shame turned into hate.

She hated herself.

Hated what she did to you.

What she'd done to something good.

And the hate built up until she couldn't take it anymore. Until she sent the text.

Three weeks too late.

But she sent it.

And now she was here — in the car, with you beside her, still not speaking.

And she was trying.

Rambling.

Choking on every word.

Trying to say sorry without even saying it.

Because it was the only thing she hadn't done yet.

And the only thing that might matter anymore.

But maybe it didn't.

Maybe it was already too late.

Because now, sitting next to you, Tara could feel it.

How your body wasn't turned toward hers. How you weren't meeting her halfway.

How your breathing stayed steady while hers was uneven — choked up from holding too much back for too long.

You weren't angry. Not loudly, anyway.

You weren't cruel.

But you'd already started to let go.

And the worst part was — she could tell.

It was in the way you blinked slower now. The way your fingers didn't twitch like they used to when you were nervous around her.

You weren't waiting for her to fix it. You weren't waiting for anything.

You were just done waiting.

"I always do this," she muttered, voice shaky. "It's not just you. I—I push people away. I ruin things. Good things. I convince myself they're not real before they can leave."

Her thumb kept swiping over the skin of her palm, like she was trying to rub a thought away.

Her shoulders had dropped, finally. Her head was ducked, chin trembling just slightly now.

"It wasn't you," she added quietly. "None of it was you."

You didn't move. Didn't interrupt.

But you were looking at her now.

And she saw it.

That subtle furrow in your brow. Those quiet eyes — too soft to be hatred, too distant to be love.

They made her feel nauseous.

So she kept talking. Rambling. Trying.

"I didn't mean what I said that night. I was—God, I was scared and angry and I just—said the worst things I could think of. Like I always do. Like I always have."

She let out a dry laugh, tears building in her eyes again, not bothering to wipe them.

"I know I made you feel like you were too much. Like everything you needed was exhausting. Like you were asking for more than I could give."

A pause. "You weren't. You weren't. I was just... tired of pretending I knew how to love someone when I didn't even know how to love myself."

You were still looking at her.

And Tara, for a second, let her mind go somewhere cruel.

Maybe you were watching her fall apart because she deserved it.

Maybe you liked seeing her like this — messy, embarrassed, desperate.

But the thought didn't last.

Because she knew you.

You weren't like her.

You didn't enjoy watching people hurt, even when they deserved it.

You probably felt bad for her.

The same way you always did — soft, tender-hearted, too forgiving for your own good.

You were probably giving her those eyes — wide and a little watery, rimmed with the barest hint of frustration. Not because you wanted revenge.

But because it still hurt.

And she hated herself for putting that look on your face again.

Because you weren't crying.

She was.

She was cracking under the weight of what she'd done —under everything she hadn't said, and everything she had.

And now she was saying it all too late.

She didn't mean any of it.

Not the things she'd said to hurt you. Not the things she'd thrown out just to end the conversation. Not the way she made you feel like needing her was some kind of burden.

But she'd said them anyway.

It was always like that with her —

the words came out sharp and defensive before she even understood what she was trying to protect. She didn't think it through. Didn't even pause.

And now, every one of those moments came back to her like bruises she'd given someone else but could still feel on her own skin.

She remembered nights when you waited on her, soft-voiced and patient, asking if she still wanted to hang out after she'd ignored you for hours. She remembered how she'd looked at you then — too tired, too annoyed, too full of something else she couldn't name — and how she'd snapped, said things like, "You always need something," or "God, can't I just have space for one night?"

And you'd never yelled back. You'd just gone quiet. That small, quiet okay that somehow cut deeper than anything she'd ever said.

She remembered that look in your eyes.

Not sad. Not angry. Just... resigned.

Like something in you had already started to dim.

Like the part of you that still believed she'd get better was flickering out.

She watched it happen. Watched the life drain out of your eyes in slow motion.

And she hadn't stopped it. Hadn't even tried.

Because what did she do? She built you up — made you feel like maybe she was someone safe to trust — and then abandoned you the second it scared her.

Like she always did.

And now here you were. Not crying. Not yelling.

Just still.

She was the one shaking now.

Not from anger. Not even guilt anymore.

Just the cold realization that she'd ruined the one good thing in her life, and it wasn't even surprising.

Not to her.

Not to you.

Of course this is how it ended.

Because that's what she did.

She ruined good things.

Especially ones like you.

Tara didn't even realize she'd stopped breathing until you spoke.

"You could've said this weeks ago."

Just that. Soft, barely audible over the hum of the heater. No sharpness, no anger, just a sad kind of honesty that somehow hurt more than anything else could have.

Tara's stomach dropped.

Of course you were right.

Of course it was too late.

Her mouth opened like she wanted to argue — to explain that she had tried, in her own broken way. That she'd stared at her phone every night, typing and deleting messages. That she thought about showing up. That she thought about saying something just like this.

But she didn't.

Not because she couldn't.

Because she wouldn't.

Because her pride had always been louder than her guilt.

Now, for the first time, it wasn't. But that didn't matter anymore.

Tara felt her throat close up again. Her hands were still shaking in her lap, clenched now, like she could physically hold herself back from asking if it was really over. If she'd lost you for good. Because something in the way you said that, told her you were already halfway gone.

And not because you wanted to be.

Because you'd had to be.

She nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the space between you.

"Yeah," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "I know."

The worst part was, she did.

Too late had finally caught up with her.

And it looked a lot like you not crying anymore.

Like you sitting quietly in the passenger seat.

Like the warmth between you gone cold.

And she knew — this didn't have to be the ending.

But it was.

Because two days ago, Tara had heard from Chad — casually, in passing — that you were leaving for the summer.

An internship you'd fought hard to get. A real one. Out of state. Big city. Bigger dreams.

And it hit her then — not just what you were doing, but what it meant.

You were moving on.

Your life was moving on.

And she wouldn't be part of it.

She wouldn't be the person you called when it started to feel overwhelming, or when it finally felt right. She wouldn't be the name you texted from your new apartment, describing the light from your windows or the weird coffee shop on the corner.

She'd lost the right to be part of that future — the one you'd once imagined with her.

And maybe that's when she really started to hate herself.

Not because you were going.

But because she'd made it impossible for you to stay.

So now, her voice broke through the silence. Small. Hesitant.

"I just..."

A breath. Shaky. Shallow.

"I couldn't let you leave without knowing."

She wasn't even sure what she meant by knowing.

That she was sorry?

That she still loved you?

That she'd ruined it, and knew she had, and would probably carry it with her for the rest of her life?

Her hands were curled into fists in her lap now, like she could keep the rest of the words from spilling out.

Her chest ached. Her throat burned.

"I know it doesn't change anything," she added quickly.

"But I couldn't let you leave thinking I didn't care."

And then nothing.

Because there was nothing left to explain.

Not really.

You sat there for another moment, watching her hands twist in her lap — watching the way she couldn't meet your eyes anymore.

Then, finally, you spoke. Quiet, but steady.

Not cold. Not warm either.

"That must've taken a lot out of you," you said.

A pause, before you added—

"Saying all that out loud."

It wasn't a compliment.

Not quite forgiveness either.

Just... an acknowledgment. A soft blow wrapped in velvet.

Tara flinched, barely, like she felt the sting in it too.

Her lips pressed into a thin, pale line — that familiar way she folded them inward when she had nothing left to offer.

She gave a small nod, like it was all she could manage.

And you just sat there.

The kind of silence that made your ears ring. Not out of tension anymore, but exhaustion — like you'd spent every last word you had, and whatever came next wasn't going to be for her.

You glanced out the window, then back at her.

Eyes soft, but distant. Like someone remembering a place they used to love.

"Thank you," you said.

It wasn't dramatic.

It wasn't kind, either — not in the way she used to know it.

It was something else. Something final.

And Tara felt it like a slow exhale to the chest.

Not forgiveness.

Not a bridge.

Just a truth you didn't want to carry in silence anymore.

You shifted in your seat, fingers curling once against your leg.

Then came the next thing — small, casual, but so obviously rehearsed that it stung.

"Well," you said, already turning toward the door, "maybe I'll see you around."

You opened it in one smooth motion.

Cool air rushed in like it couldn't wait to get between you.

And then your shoes hit the pavement, one after the other, like punctuation marks.

Tara nodded at that, slow and almost imperceptible.

Her lips pressed together, then tugged inward — that hollow shape they made when she had too much in her throat to say anything.

"Bye," she mumbled, barely above a breath.

But you were already stepping away.

The door shut with a quiet thunk —not angry, not harsh, but it still echoed through her bones.

She stayed there.

Hands loose in her lap, her chest barely moving.

She didn't follow.

Didn't call after you or unbuckle herself like she might've in another version of this story.

There had been so many of those — so many versions where she fixed things, where you stayed, where she said it all in time.

But this wasn't one of them.

You were walking up the road now — slow, unhurried.

The streetlight caught in your hair, the sleeves of your sweatshirt falling over your hands.

Same posture. Same pace.

But something was different. Something was missing.

You still looked like you.

Still carried yourself with that quiet grace she used to ache over.

Still had that particular way of walking, where you leaned slightly forward like you were always thinking about something.

But it wasn't the same.

There used to be this weightless thing behind your eyes — not joy exactly, but something open.

Something honest and breakable that only she ever really saw.

And now it was gone.

Tara had watched the light drain from it, slowly.

Watched you shrink in on yourself during every fight.

Watched your voice go quieter and quieter, until it stopped reaching for her at all.

She'd done that.

She knew that now.

And as she sat in the car — the seat still faintly warm where you'd been —she realized she would never get to see who you became next.

Never get to watch you grow into the version of yourself that she knew was coming.

Because you were leaving for something bigger.

You had an internship. A future. A plan.

And for the first time, she wouldn't be there.

She wouldn't get the texts.

Wouldn't hear the stories.

Wouldn't get to see you laugh in a new city, around new people, with someone who wasn't her.

She'd found out about it by accident — something you'd posted a few days ago.

Just a sentence in a caption.

But it said everything.

Tara hadn't even let herself cry then.

Not really.

She'd just stared at the photo, her thumb hovering over your name like it could undo something.

But it couldn't.

She didn't get to be part of that version of you anymore.

She had pushed you out of it.

And maybe that's when she really started to hate herself.

Not because you were going.

Not because you had plans.

But because she'd made it impossible for you to stay.

There was no one left to blame for that. Not anymore.

And now she watched you walking further and further away —past the trees, past the mailbox, up the steps of your porch where the light was still on.

She knew that hallway.

She knew that door.

She knew what it sounded like when it shut behind you.

But tonight, she wouldn't hear it.

Tonight, she wouldn't know if you looked back.

She wouldn't know if you hesitated, if your hand lingered on the doorknob.

Because she didn't follow.

She didn't try to fix it.

You had always been the softest part of her world — and now, you were gone.

And she had no one to blame but herself.

Seems like she always hurt the ones she loved the most.

Not because she wanted to.

But because she didn't know how to hold them properly.

She never learned how to be gentle without breaking something.

She let her eyes follow you one last time —watched your figure blur into the shadows, the outline of your shoulders shrinking as the distance grew.

She stayed until she couldn't see you anymore.

Not even a silhouette.

And for once, Tara didn't try to stop you.

She didn't run after you, didn't call your name.

She just sat there.

And watched you go — because she knew she'd already lost you.

And of course it was her.

It was always Tara.

You'd known her since middle school — since she wore her sleeves too long and refused to answer questions in class unless the teacher called on her twice. You still remembered the first time she came to your house, kicked her shoes off at the door like she lived there, and left a half-eaten granola bar on your desk that she never remembered to take home.

Since then, she'd just... stayed.

She'd wormed her way into every part of your life so gradually that it stopped feeling like a separate thing. There was no "you" without Tara. That was the way people said it too — always as a unit. Always side by side. If she wasn't with you, people asked where she was. If she didn't answer your texts for more than a few hours, your entire day started to feel wrong.

And it had never bothered you.

Not once.

The closeness, the way your lives had started to blur at the edges — it had always felt natural. Expected. Normal. Until it didn't.

You didn't say anything. Of course not. You let it keep happening. Let her sleep in your bed when she was too tired to walk home. Let her steal fries off your plate without asking. Let her walk into your room with wet hair, wearing one of your shirts, and sit on your floor like she belonged there.

And maybe she did.

You never told her to stop.

You didn't even notice it, not at first. Whatever it was — whatever this was becoming. You figured it was just what best friends were supposed to be like. That kind of closeness, that kind of comfort. The constant touch, the teasing, the way her words sank under your skin even when she was just being dumb and loud and Tara.

But then she started doing things that felt different. Not big things. Just... slightly tilted. Just enough to make you pause. Compliments that used to be half-joking — "you actually don't look like trash today," or "okay, model" — started sounding like she meant them.

And she said them more. When you weren't dressed up. When you were wearing sweats and hadn't brushed your hair and still had toothpaste on your sleeve. She'd look at you, not like she was teasing, but like she was waiting for you to believe her.

And maybe the worst part was, sometimes you wanted to.

You'd catch yourself watching her too long while she talked — not because of what she was saying, but because of her mouth. The way it moved. The way her hands moved with it. Or her eyes, when she was excited. You'd watched her a million times before. This was nothing new. But now it felt like noticing something you weren't supposed to. Something private.

You thought maybe it was just you. You were tired. You were stressed. It was nothing.

But then you started noticing things you never used to care about — like the way she'd lift her shirt over her head and toss it onto your floor while changing in front of you, like always. Only now you couldn't help but follow the curve of her spine as she moved. You knew every inch of her — that scar on her ribs from a bike crash, the freckle on her shoulder, the way her voice sounded when she was about to ask for a favor — and still, lately, it all felt new.

And you hated it.

Not because it was bad, but because it didn't feel allowed.

She was your best friend. The one person who knew all your worst stories. Who had seen you cry with snot on your face. Who'd pulled gum out of your hair. Who used to sleep over just to play dumb party games and practice kissing — not because it meant anything, just so you wouldn't embarrass yourself later when it actually happened with someone else.

It wasn't supposed to go past that. That was the whole point.

You weren't supposed to feel like that about her.

You were not supposed to want to know what it would feel like now.

And you were most definitely not supposed to fall in love with your best friend.

That was the one rule.

The one everyone knew — even if they didn't say it out loud. You could be close. You could be inseparable. You could share a bed, share food, share your whole damn life if you wanted to. But you weren't supposed to fall.

Because once you did, it stopped being safe.

It stopped being easy.

And the worst part was... you didn't even know when it happened. There wasn't a moment where the line was crossed. No blinking red light. No warning. Just a slow, quiet drift. One day, you were fifteen, letting her kiss you in the dark because it was funny, and neither of you had done it before.

You tried to ignore it.

You kept telling yourself that if you didn't say it, if you didn't name it, then maybe it would pass. Maybe it would fade, like a weird dream you wake up from and forget by breakfast.

But it didn't fade.

It stayed.

In the pit of your stomach. In the way your chest tightened when she laughed at someone else's joke. In the way you started noticing how many people looked at her when she walked into a room — and how easy it was to pretend it didn't bother you. Until it did.

And now it felt like you were breaking something just by feeling it.

Like you'd broken some agreement neither of you ever made but both of you silently lived by. Best friends. Always. Only.

You wanted to take it back.

God, you would've. If that was even possible.

But there was no switch to flip. No reset.

It was just you. And her. And everything that used to feel so simple, now pulling at you like something sharp under your skin.

And that was the worst part — how it snuck up on you. How it should've been obvious, but somehow wasn't.

You'd always known you liked girls. Since before it even made sense to.

You were ten when you saw Pulp Fiction for the first time — too young, obviously — but you remembered watching Mia Wallace on that screen and feeling something stir in your chest that had nothing to do with the plot. You didn't know what it meant. You just knew.

By fifteen, it wasn't a question anymore. Not when you walked into high school and saw junior girls with eyeliner smudged around their lashes, rolling their skirts at the waist, wearing see-through tops with the lace of their bras peeking through. You'd never said anything out loud, never stared, but your eyes found them anyway. The way they moved. The way they laughed.

It didn't scare you.

It just was. Like breathing.

And Tara knew. Of course she did. She knew everything. You told her sometime sophomore year, half by accident — a passing comment, a shrug, something about how hot the waitress was — and she hadn't even blinked. Just nodded, like it was obvious. Like it didn't matter.

Which was good. Great, even.

But somehow, that made it worse.

Because she was supposed to be safe. She was the one girl you didn't have to worry about feeling that way toward. You could sleep in her bed. You could hold her hand in public. You could pull her into your lap and braid her hair and walk down the street with your arms around each other and none of it meant anything — not like that. That was the whole point.

You could like girls.

And she could be your best friend.

Those things weren't supposed to touch.

You could've fallen for anyone else and it wouldn't have been like this. It wouldn't have felt so... dangerous. So unfair. Like wanting her was the same thing as betraying her. Like you'd ruined something just by realizing it.

You never expected it.

You didn't ask for it.

But then one day she smiled at you with her hair tucked behind her ears and said your name like it meant something, and suddenly you couldn't remember how it ever felt before.

And after that, everything started to feel like maybe.

Maybe she meant it when she said you looked hot and not just cute.

Maybe she touched your waist when she moved past you in the kitchen because she wanted to.

Maybe she kept sleeping over so often because her bed felt too far away from yours.

She was always close. She'd always been like that — climbing into your lap to show you a meme, throwing her arm across your stomach while you watched TV, resting her chin on your shoulder when you were brushing your teeth. You used to think she was just like that with everyone.

Until you started watching her with everyone else.

She didn't touch them the same.

She didn't look at them the same.

LOOK

And maybe it was nothing.

But maybe it wasn't.

Maybe — if you let yourself believe it for long enough — it was possible.

You thought about telling her. Of course you did.

Not seriously, not at first. Just in those imaginary conversations you had while brushing your teeth, or lying awake after she'd fallen asleep beside you. You'd go through every version of it in your head — what you'd say, how she'd react, what you'd do if she pulled away.

Most of the time, it ended badly.

She'd laugh, maybe. Or not laugh — worse, smile, that tight polite kind of smile she gave to guys who asked for her number in front of 7-Eleven.

She'd say something like, "That's sweet," or "I love you, just not like that."

She'd try to make it okay. Try not to make it weird. And somehow that would make it worse.

You'd seen her do it before — soften her voice for people she didn't want to hurt.

You could already hear it. You knew her voice too well.

And yeah, sometimes you told yourself that if she reacted with disgust — if she made you feel wrong for it — maybe she wasn't the friend you thought she was. Maybe you'd be better off knowing.

But she wouldn't.

That was the thing. She'd be too kind about it. Too gentle.

And that would be the part that broke you.

Because she wouldn't be angry. She'd still be your friend.

She just wouldn't love you back.

And you didn't think you could survive being close to her like that — not after she knew, not if she didn't feel the same.

So you didn't say anything.

You kept it quiet.

You let her keep touching you, complimenting you, curling up next to you on the couch — like none of it meant anything.

And you tried to believe that was enough.

You told yourself it could be. That if you just kept going — kept playing along — maybe it would fade. Maybe it'd pass like other things do.

But it didn't.

Because even now, even here, even after everything — She's right beside you. Close enough to touch.

You're both on her bed, your backs resting against the wall, the sun barely cutting through the curtain. She's talking. Laughing. Rambling about something from class — some guy who said Freud invented feminism — and you're half-listening, giving her the kinds of reactions you've practiced by now. A laugh, a nod, a smile. Just enough to seem like you're still here.

And maybe you are. Just not in the way she thinks.

"...and then he's like, 'Well, I just think Freud doesn't get enough credit, you know? I mean, he basically invented feminism.'"

You blink at her, trying to catch up. "Freud?"

Tara snorts. "Yeah. Freud. As in, 'your mom is the blueprint for every girl you'll ever love' Freud."

You laugh. A real one, sort of. It slips out before you can stop it, and her smile grows.

"I swear, this guy's gonna write his thesis on daddy issues and then wonder why no one takes him seriously."

You nod, half-smiling, reaching down to pluck at the loose thread on your sock. She shifts next to you — not away, but closer — pulling one knee up so it rests against your leg. She doesn't even seem to notice. You do.

"Anyway," she says, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. "I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm flirting with him."

That makes your stomach twist, even though you don't look up. You keep your eyes on the thread between your fingers. "Are you?"

She laughs again — softer this time. "God, no."

Your heart steadies for a second. Just enough to breathe.

"I mean," she adds, "he's cute, I guess. But not, like... that cute."

That part, she says while glancing at you. And maybe you imagine the look in her eyes — the way they flicker, just for a second. But it's enough. Enough to keep the hope alive. Enough to make everything hurt just a little more.

"Okay," you say, brushing a piece of lint off your sweatshirt, "but Freud definitely didn't invent feminism. He barely even liked women."

Tara snorts. "Tell that to Liam. He thinks he's a genius because he read, like, half a Wikipedia page."

"Sounds like a keeper," you mutter.

She raises a brow. "Jealous?"

It's a joke. She's smirking. But you hesitate just long enough for her to catch it.

"I mean—" you recover fast, "I just didn't know you were into guys who think girls have Electra complexes."

Tara laughs — that unfiltered kind, where her nose scrunches and she tilts into your shoulder like she can't help it. You pretend your heart doesn't flip over. You pretend it's not the best sound you've ever heard.

"You're so annoying," she grins, nudging your leg with hers.

You bump her knee back. "You're the one defending Freud's biggest fan."

She snorts, then falls quiet for a second — not in a weird way, just the kind of quiet that happens when the conversation starts to wind down. The light through her curtains is starting to dim. Her playlist hums low from her speaker. It's all so normal. Too normal.

"Can you sleep over tonight?" she asks, casual like always, like she doesn't even have to think about it.

And she doesn't. Because this is what you do. Fridays, Saturdays, random Tuesdays when she's bored — you've been sleeping over since you were kids. Her asking barely counts as a question anymore.

Still, you glance at her. "Thought you had a hot date with Liam."

She makes a face. "God, no. He eats string cheese with a fork."

You laugh — not because it's that funny, but because it's her. Because it's easy. Too easy. And maybe that's the problem.

"Yeah, I can stay," you say, careful not to sound weird about it.

She smiles like she already knew you'd say yes.

And then she moves on. Back to talking about something else. Like none of it meant anything.

Like your heart's not currently dissolving in your chest.

___

It didn't change anything.

Not really.

It wasn't different.

She didn't act different. She didn't say anything new, didn't touch you in a way that could be called anything other than casual — not really. You watched movies. Ate popcorn. She fell asleep halfway through with her head against your shoulder, just like always.

She still stole half your blanket like she always did. Still complained that your room was too cold, or your charger was too short, or your shampoo smelled too strong even though she used it every time.

She still texted you from the bathroom just to say hurry up with ten extra y's.

Still curled up beside you like she belonged there.

It was just the same.

Except it wasn't. Not to you.

Something about it felt different. Or maybe you were the difference.

Maybe it was the way she kept glancing at you when she thought you weren't looking. Or the way her leg pressed against yours under the covers and didn't move. Or the way her fingers grazed your wrist — just lightly, just for a second — but long enough that your stomach tightened like it meant something.

And the worst part? You weren't even sure it did.

Because this was always Tara. This was how she'd always been. Touchy. Loud. Warm. Clingy in a way that never used to confuse you.

But everything she did, every little thing, settled in your chest like it had weight now. The way her leg brushed yours under the blanket. The way she shifted in her sleep, curling toward you, her breath warm against your skin. None of it was new. But it all felt new. Like your body had only just learned how to register it.

You didn't sleep much. Just stared up at her ceiling, trying to find some version of the night where you didn't want to reach over and hold her. Just hold her. Without a joke between you. Without needing an excuse.

And maybe the worst part was that it could've passed for normal.

To her, it was normal.

But for you... something had already shifted. The quiet closeness that used to feel like home had turned into something that ached — soft, constant, impossible to ignore.

And when she blinked up at you that morning, stretching and mumbling about how much popcorn she ate, all sleepy and golden and real — you knew. You knew it was already too late to turn it off.

You didn't say anything. Of course you didn't.

You sat there with your heart in your throat and nodded along like it was just another Saturday morning. Like her voice wasn't still in your head from the night before — low, playful, calling your name like she meant it. Like you weren't still aching with the feeling of her leg against yours under the blanket, even now.

You didn't plan to tell her. Not seriously. It wasn't like you woke up with a decision made, with some big confession waiting behind your teeth.

But the thought came anyway. Quiet. Persistent.

It came while she pulled her hair into a bun with one hand, still squinting at the sunlight. It came when she offered you her hoodie because your shirt had popcorn grease on it, like it was nothing. It came in the silence, too — in the easy, familiar way she looked at you when you weren't even saying anything.

You started wondering if not telling her was its own kind of lie.

And that was the thing — you didn't lie to each other. Not really. You never had. It was one of those unspoken rules that didn't need to be said out loud. Since the seventh grade, probably, when she swore you to secrecy over a crush on a camp counselor and you told her about the time you cried during The Little Prince and never told anyone else.

You knew everything about her. She knew everything about you.

Except this.

And the longer you kept it, the heavier it felt. Not just because it was hard — but because it didn't feel like you. Not around her. Not in this.

So yeah. You started thinking about it. Not planning, not exactly. But you were holding onto something — the way her eyes lingered sometimes. The compliments that didn't sound like jokes anymore. The way she'd looked at you the night before, all soft and tired, like she wanted you to stay.

Maybe you made it all up. Maybe it was just your own delusion feeding itself again.

But it didn't matter.

Because the thought was there now. And once it was there, it didn't leave.

It followed you everywhere. Through every conversation, every inside joke, every lazy moment lying side by side on her bed, scrolling through your phones in silence.

You tried not to tell her.

You really tried.

But the thing was — the words lived in your mouth now. Right behind your teeth, always half-shaped. You caught yourself starting the sentence more than once. Felt it bubbling up on accident, right in the middle of something else. Your heart would kick up, throat tightening, and she'd look at you with that curious half-smile like she was ready for whatever you had to say.

And every time, you bailed.

You'd panic and redirect. Say something stupid instead. "Your hair looks really good like that," or, "You're so dramatic," just to fill the space. Just to steer it back to somewhere safer. You knew she could tell something was off — the way she tilted her head, eyes squinting a little like she was trying to read you. But she never pressed.

Sometimes, she'd laugh and say, "What?" and you'd just shrug and shake your head. Like it was nothing.

And maybe it was nothing. Except it wasn't.

You found yourself listening for the right moment — scanning every pause in conversation like maybe this would be the one. This could be the place you say it. In the car. On the walk home. In the middle of a movie when the light from the screen softened her face and made her look even more like something that could break your heart.

It was pathetic.

You'd stare at her mouth while she talked and think, What if I just said it now?

What would she do if you looked at her, really looked at her, and said, "Tara, I think I'm in love with you"?

But every time you imagined it, your brain filled in her response for you. You could hear it so clearly — the way she'd laugh nervously, the way her smile would flatten, how she'd say something like, "That's sweet, but you know I don't see you like that," like it wouldn't hurt. Like it wouldn't ruin you.

So you didn't say it.

You just kept carrying it around like a secret burning a hole in your pocket.

And still — the thought wouldn't go. Wouldn't let you rest. Wouldn't stop circling every time her hand brushed yours, every time she leaned into you like she didn't even notice what she was doing.

You tried not to tell her.

But some part of you was already writing the sentence.

And eventually it wore you down. Quietly, at first — like a drip from the ceiling you kept pretending not to notice.

But it didn't stop. The thought sat in your chest like a second heartbeat, loud and wrong and always there. And it wasn't just emotional anymore. It started creeping into your body, too.

You were tired. Restless. Unfocused at school. You'd reread the same paragraph three times without registering a word. You were forgetting things — your keys, your water bottle, where you were supposed to be after lunch. Tara noticed. Of course she noticed.

She started asking if something was wrong. Soft at first — casual, passing questions you could brush off.

"You okay today?"

"Why are you being weird?"

"You sure everything's fine?"

You lied. Every time. Nodded, smiled, joked it away. But the thing about Tara was — she didn't just listen to what you said. She watched you. Noticed when your hands fidgeted. When your voice sounded thinner than usual. When you laughed at the wrong part of a story.

You could feel her eyes on you sometimes, trying to figure it out.

And it wasn't just with her. It was everything. You were zoning out mid-conversation with other people. Snapping at your mom. Forgetting things your teachers just told you. Every minute you weren't with Tara, you were thinking about her — and every minute you were, you were trying not to fall apart under the weight of it all.

You weren't sleeping well. Your chest felt tight more often than not.

All because of a sentence you couldn't say.

And eventually, that became the truth you couldn't ignore.

You were going to tell her.

You didn't know when. Didn't know how. You didn't even let yourself think that far ahead — the where or the exact words or what her face might look like after. All you knew was that the silence was worse. That carrying it was changing you, turning everything inside out.

So you made the decision.

You were going to tell her.

Even if it ruined everything.

Even if she never looked at you the same again.

Even if she laughed — even if she hated you.

You were still going to do it.

Because keeping it in had started to feel like lying. And the one thing you and Tara had never done — ever — was lie to each other.

So you thought about it all week.

What you would say. How to say it. How to make it sound less like a confession and more like... just a thing. Something you needed to get off your chest, not something she had to carry with you. Something casual, if you could manage that.

You practiced sentences in your head during class.

"I like someone."

"Can I tell you something weird?"

"I think I've been feeling something I shouldn't."

None of them felt right. Or safe. Or even possible.

And the more you tried to plan it, the more you realized how stupid it was to try. You couldn't script this. You just had to do it. Say it. Let her have it. Let her know.

You didn't even need anything back — not a reaction, not a promise, not a new ending. Just her knowing would be enough. You were prepared for her to smile that awkward Tara smile, rub the back of her neck, and try to make a joke out of it. You were prepared for her to not say anything at all.

You'd still love her. You'd still stay best friends.

You just couldn't keep walking around with it like a secret stuffed under your tongue.

The only problem was... you hadn't seen her much lately.

It wasn't dramatic — no fight, no distance, no change in how she treated you. You were still close. Still best friends. Still texting, still sharing everything like always. Just... less in person. Less sleepovers. Less weekends tangled up in each other's lives. You were both just busy. Or maybe not needing to be together every second anymore was a part of growing up.

You hated it. But you also understood it.

Still, it made figuring out when to say it harder. You couldn't tell her in the middle of a text conversation about campus food. You couldn't FaceTime her just to say "Hey, I've been in love with you for the past three months, how's your Thursday?"

It had to be in person.

But that meant waiting. And you'd already waited so long you were starting to forget what it felt like to breathe normally.

So you waited. And kept thinking. And kept practicing lines in your head that you already knew you weren't going to use.

You just needed a moment.

One more moment with her.

And this time, you'd say it.

And it came.

It came that Friday night, just after nine. You were curled on your bed, phone in hand, rereading an old conversation you weren't supposed to still have saved, when her name lit up your screen.

sleepover tmrw???

mom's gone all weekend.

snacks + horror movie marathon + drinking til we hate ourselves?? 😇

You stared at it for a second too long. Not because you didn't want to say yes. You did. God, you did.

But because there it was. The moment. The one you'd been waiting for, hoping for, pretending you wouldn't beg the universe to hand you.

And maybe the fact that she asked — like always, like nothing was different — somehow made it feel even more perfect. Like you owed her the truth now.

yeah ofc

i'll bring the candy

you know... if we're gonna throw up we might as well commit

my girl 😌💋

You read that last text more times than you'd ever admit.

My girl. You knew she didn't mean it. Not the way you did.

But still. Still.

You didn't sleep much that night. You just kept thinking:

This is it.

You didn't know how it would happen, or when.

But it would. You'd decided.

You were going to tell her.

You were going to say it.

And you'd deal with whatever came after.

You woke up Saturday with that buzzing under your skin — not quite panic, not quite excitement. Just noise. Steady and loud and constant. It followed you all morning, humming in your chest as you brushed your teeth, lingered while you picked at breakfast, built somewhere behind your ribs when your mom asked if you had any plans for the day.

You almost said no. Out of reflex. Like saying it out loud would make it too real.

But you did have plans.

You were going to Tara's.

You were going to tell her.

And then what?

Would she send you home?

Would she say she didn't want to share the bed anymore?

Would she freeze the way she does when she doesn't know what to say — all quiet and polite and pulling away, little by little?

You told yourself no. You told yourself it was Tara.

Tara, who once let you cry in her lap for forty minutes straight when you got your heart broken at fourteen by a girl who wouldn't even hold your hand in public.

Tara, who'd seen you ugly laugh and still invited you to every party.

Tara, who knew you — all of you — and never once made you feel like too much.

It would be fine.

It was just a sleepover. Like always. Like every weekend since you were old enough to walk to each other's houses on your own.

You were just telling her a small, personal fact about yourself.

Nothing massive.

Just the truth.

You didn't pack much.

Just a sleep shirt.

You had a toothbrush at her place, a hairbrush too. Your favorite hoodie lived on the back of her desk chair. Her room had always been a second home. There wasn't much to bring.

The drive felt longer than usual, even though it wasn't. Even though you could probably do it in your sleep by now. The streets were familiar. So was the nervous thrum in your chest — except this time, it didn't go away when you parked.

Your fingers lingered on the handle for a second before getting out.

The sun was going down by the time you reached her front door, sleep shirt shoved into your bag like some kind of backup plan. Your heartbeat a steady, itchy thing in your throat.

You rang once.

The porch light flicked on.

And then the door swung open.

And there she was.

Hair loose, a band tee hanging off her shoulder, grinning like she hadn't stopped since she sent the text.

"Finally," she said, tugging you inside. "I've been waiting for you all day."

It was normal from there. Effortlessly, painfully normal.

She kicked the door shut behind you with the heel of her foot and tossed your bag toward the stairs without even looking. You followed her into the kitchen like you always did, like muscle memory, like this was any other Saturday. She opened the cabinet over the fridge and pulled out a half-finished bottle of red wine — cheap, old enough to have lost its label. The cork was pushed in and floating a little crooked.

Tara handed you a glass like she always did, murmuring something sarcastic about how this one actually tasted less like vinegar than the last one you shared. You grinned, rolled your eyes, leaned your hip against the counter while she poured — because that was what you always did. That was the script. You knew every beat of it by heart.

The plan was to get a little tipsy, watch Hereditary or Scream 2 for the hundredth time, and maybe make a snack you'd regret in the morning. But that's not what happened.

Instead, you ended up sitting cross-legged on her bed, wine glass abandoned on the floor, Tara's phone somewhere between you both and playing a playlist that barely reached the end of the first song before you started talking. And then kept talking. About everything and nothing, like always.

She told you about the guy who sat behind her in econ who always chewed gum with his mouth open. You told her about a girl in your seminar who cried during a pop quiz. She made a joke about it — something mean but weirdly insightful — and you laughed until your stomach hurt.

You didn't even realize the wine was still untouched until she stretched, glanced at it, and said, "We suck at drinking."

You shrugged. "We talk too much."

"Gross," she smiled, nudging your foot with hers. "Let's never stop."

And you laughed again — too hard for what she said, probably — but you were grateful for it. For how light it all still felt. For the way she curled up beside you, legs tangled with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It was so normal. So deeply, stubbornly familiar that you almost forgot why you'd come in the first place.

Almost.

Because every so often, the thought would flare up behind your ribs — a quiet, breathless reminder: say it.

Tara tilted her head back on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut mid-sentence, and you just... watched her. Let the moment stretch long and warm and safe between you.

And you knew.

That this was the moment you'd been waiting for. Not a big dramatic one, not some cinematic confession in the rain or in the middle of an argument. Just this — her face half-lit by the string lights above her bed, her arms folded under her head, the room soft with music and sleep and warmth.

Your heart had already started to beat differently. That quiet, breathless rhythm that always came before something big. Not loud. Not obvious. Just there — in the way your stomach fluttered and your fingers felt too still, too aware of themselves.

You glanced at your wine glass. Lifted it, took a sip, set it back down. Just to do something with your hands.

She looked so relaxed. So her. And you felt suddenly, painfully aware of how far your body was from hers — how easy it would be to just reach out, say her name, let it all fall out of you like it had been building up for years. Because it had.

You tried to form it in your head first.

Tried out a few versions, quietly, behind your teeth.

I've been meaning to tell you something.

Can I tell you something without you making it a big deal?

Have you ever liked someone and not known if it would ruin everything?

Too heavy. Too vague. Too much.

You swallowed.

You could feel it climbing up your throat anyway.

You shifted a little closer, like it would help, like it would make it easier if her knee was touching yours. It didn't.

Your hand flattened against the comforter. Her comforter. You'd grown up on this bed. Slept on it through sleepovers and flu seasons and summers when the air conditioning broke. You knew this room. You knew her. But right now, it all felt new.

And maybe that's what terrified you the most.

That once the words were out, you'd never know this version again. Not exactly like this.

Still — you drew in a breath. Not deep, not steady. But enough.

"Okay, I need to talk to you—"

"I have to tell you something."

The words collided, cutting into each other mid-air. Her voice sliced clean through yours, a beat too fast, like she'd been holding it in.

Your eyes snapped up to hers. Tara froze, as if realizing too late that she'd spoken over you. Her lips parted, brow knitting together, a faint crease of apology appearing between her eyebrows.

"Sorry," she said, already shaking her head. Her hands lifted, palms out, like she was surrendering. "No—sorry. You go first."

There was something tight behind her smile, something just barely off. Like she was trying to play it cool but didn't quite know how. And maybe it should've made you more nervous — the way her fingers tapped once against her knee, or how her gaze dropped too quickly to the blanket between you.

But instead, a strange calm settled over you. Like coming up for air just before going under again.

You didn't want to say it.

Not right now. Not like this.

Because once you said it, it would exist. Not just in your head or in all the small, invisible ways it had changed you — but here, between you. Real and permanent. And you couldn't take it back. Not even if she wanted you to.

So instead, you swallowed hard and shook your head, your voice quieter than you'd meant. "No, it's okay. You go."

Tara hesitated for a second. Studied your face like she wasn't sure if she should. And then she gave you a small smile — not her usual sharp, teasing one, but something softer. A little more serious.

And maybe that's when your chest started to tighten again.

Because suddenly, you weren't sure what she was about to say.

Was she going to say it first?

Was that even possible?

Your brain scrambled to keep up, jumping to conclusions you didn't let yourself imagine before. Maybe she felt it too — the shift in the air lately, the moments that hung a little too long, the looks that lasted one second too many. Maybe she'd been thinking about it all week just like you had. Rehearsing her words in the mirror. Running through best and worst case scenarios.

Maybe that was what the smile meant. Maybe it wasn't just nervous — maybe it was hopeful.

But then again... maybe not.

Maybe she had something completely normal to say. Like asking you for help with her essay, or to tell you that Liam from stats had asked her out after all. Maybe she was about to ask you if he was cute, if you thought she should say yes. Or maybe — worse — she'd say something like, "I know you've been acting weird lately," and you'd have to lie. Or tell the truth. Or ruin everything.

You weren't sure which one scared you more.

She opened her mouth like she was about to speak.

And you braced yourself.

Because she's almost acting weird.

Not weird in the obvious way. Not in the way you'd call her out for. But it's there — in the way her fingers keep fidgeting with the frayed edge of her sleeve, tugging and twisting the thread around her pinky like it's keeping her grounded. In the way she keeps glancing at you, fast little flickers that never quite last, like she's trying to time something just right.

She clears her throat once. Then again, like she's stalling.

You feel your stomach start to turn.

It's not nerves exactly — it's heavier than that. More like pressure. Like something winding tighter inside you the longer she stays quiet. Because it feels like she's holding something in. Something big. And you'd swear you know what it is. Or you want to believe you do.

Because her foot brushes yours under the blanket and doesn't move away. Because her mouth parts like she's going to say something — and maybe, maybe it'll be the same thing you've been trying to work up the nerve to say all night.

But instead—

"So..." she says, too casually. Her voice does that lilting thing it always does when she's trying to sound neutral but isn't. Her eyes dart away the moment yours meet them, fixing instead on the ceiling.

You don't say anything. Just wait. You feel the slow drop in your chest before she even finishes the sentence.

She tucks one leg underneath her, still fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. Her fingers are picking at the thread faster now.

"I've been kinda hanging out with Chad."

There's a pause.

Not because she's waiting for your reaction — not really — but because she seems unsure of what to add next. She gives a little shrug. Bites her lip like maybe that made it sound bigger than it was. Or smaller than it actually is. You can't tell.

Your brain doesn't catch up at first. It just plays the sentence again, slower this time.

Like a record skipping back. Like something that doesn't belong here — not in this night, not in this bed, not in the space between your knee and hers.

It takes a second for the words to sink in. For them to actually mean something.

You pause.

Just a second too long.

"Oh."

That's all you say. Quiet. Small. Maybe even flat.

Just that.

You don't look at her. You can't. And she doesn't look at you either — her gaze still angled toward the ceiling, like maybe this is easier to say to the shadows on her walls.

You're suddenly very aware of the heat under the blanket. Of your legs tucked close to your chest. Of your fingers twisting the edge of your sleep shirt, trying not to grip too tight.

"It's not, like..." she starts, voice lighter than before, like she can feel something shift but doesn't want to name it. "It's not official or anything. I don't know. He's been... nice lately."

Nice.

You nod. Slowly. Like that explains everything. Like you get it. Like it doesn't feel like something just caved in quietly inside your chest.

There's a pause after that. Just long enough to notice it. Just long enough for your thoughts to try to catch up with your body.

You don't look at her. You're still staring somewhere just past the curve of your knee, at the little wrinkle in the blanket between you two. Like maybe if you focus hard enough, everything else will dull.

You smile a little. Or at least — you try to. It's not much. Just the kind of reflexive twitch your face makes when your brain tells it to act normal.

"That's..." Your voice isn't as steady as you want it to be. You clear your throat, quiet. Try again. "That's new."

You glance at her now — just quick, barely a second — and then back to your sleeve, which you're suddenly obsessed with. Picking at a loose thread with your fingernail.

"When did that happen?" you ask, forcing your tone lighter. Casual. Teasing, maybe. As if this is just one of the many random things she blurts out during late-night talks. As if this isn't rearranging the entire world in your head.

Tara hesitates.

She's fidgeting again — thumb rubbing over the inside of her wrist, then up to the hem of her sleeve, folding it back and then down again. Her shoulders tense for a second like she's bracing herself.

"I don't know..." she says, her voice softer now. Like she's not even sure she should be saying it. "Like, a couple weeks?"

She still isn't looking at you.

And it hits you — not hard, not sudden. Just low and quiet and steady: she almost regrets telling you.

She's nervous. You can tell. In the way her knee bounces once beneath the blanket and then stops like she forced it still. In the way her eyes dart to the ceiling, to the window, to anywhere that's not your face.

You know her too well. Every fidget, every breath she holds for a second too long.

And maybe she can tell something shifted too, because she starts rambling, like she's trying to clean up after herself.

"I mean — it's not serious or anything," she says quickly. "I don't even know what it is. It's not a big deal. We just... I don't know. It was stupid. He asked to hang out a couple times and I didn't have anything else going on, so..."

Her voice trails off. She shrugs again, but this one's smaller. Tighter. More like she's trying to make herself smaller too.

You nod. Again.

Say nothing.

Your fingers twist the fabric of your sleeve tighter around your hand, knuckles going pale with the effort. Not that she notices. Not that she's looking.

Your throat's dry, but you don't clear it this time. You don't say another word. You just nod like it's fine.

Like everything is still fine.

And all you can think about is how stupid it is that you waited. That you could've said something before. That maybe, just maybe, this was the moment it all slipped away.

Because if it had only been a couple weeks... if she was still unsure, if she didn't even know what it was... then maybe you could've gotten there first. Maybe she would've picked you.

The thought crawls slowly across your chest like a bruise that hasn't surfaced yet.

You glance at her again — not long, not deep, just enough to register the way she's picking at a loose string on her hoodie sleeve now. Her posture is a little too stiff, like she's trying too hard to appear relaxed.

And you can't help it.

You swallow, voice tight. "Why didn't you tell me?"

The question slips out too easily. Too honest.

Tara flinched. Almost imperceptibly — just a small twitch of her shoulder, but you catch it.

She looks over at you, finally, her eyes flicking up and locking with yours like she hadn't expected that. Like you caught her in something she wasn't ready to admit she was hiding.

"I—" She hesitates, her fingers freezing mid-pick. "I was going to."

You raise your eyebrows slightly, not pressing her yet. Just listening.

She shifts again. Pulls her legs up a little more onto the bed and tugs the blanket over her knees, like she suddenly needs something between you.

"I didn't know if it was even gonna be a thing," she says quickly, her voice getting a little faster with every word. "Like, I didn't wanna say anything and then have it be awkward if it just... fizzled out or whatever. It's not serious, I swear. I just—he asked, and I said yeah, and we've hung out a couple times, and I don't even know if it means anything."

She's rambling now. You can hear it in the way her sentences blur together, her words tangling at the ends. That tone she gets when she's unsure of herself — when she's trying to sound chill, but her hands give her away.

She keeps pushing her hair behind her ear, again and again, even though it doesn't need to be moved.

And the thing is... it kind of makes sense.

You nod slowly, even as your brain starts slipping into places it shouldn't.

It makes logical sense, at least. You've both had flings that didn't go anywhere before. Not everything gets announced right away. Sometimes things are just... floating. In-between.

But this was different.

You always told each other about crushes. That was the rule. The bit of safety net you'd woven between you both: honesty, even when it was awkward. You'd sat through hours of each other's rambles — about girls, boys, people who looked good in gym class and people who didn't text back and people you only liked for a week. That was your thing.

So why not now?

And Chad? Out of everyone?

Chad was... Chad. He wasn't a bad guy. You liked him, in the way you liked all your mutual friends. He was funny, laid back, never mean.

But he was also weird. Not in a charming way. In a confusing way. Like he was still figuring out who he was all the time, and not always in a good direction. His sense of humor was half weird impressions and half random TikTok audio quotes. His idea of flirting was interrupting you mid-story just to say something dumb and off-topic.

He wasn't serious. He wasn't deep. He wasn't... Tara's type.

Her lips part, but nothing comes out right away. Like she's looking for the right excuse and can't find one that fits.

"I just..." she says finally. Quietly.

She sighs, presses her palm to her forehead, fingers curled in a half-fist. "I don't know, okay? I guess I just didn't know how to bring it up."

You nod again, even though it doesn't fix anything.

Because you could've brought something up, too. And you didn't.

And now your brain is turning itself inside out with one repeating question: If I had told her first... would she have picked me instead?

You don't say it. But it's loud in your head.

You wonder if she would've hesitated like this if it were someone else asking her out. If she would've waited, or if she would've come running to tell you, giddy and excited and full of things to say.

But she didn't.

She kept it quiet.

And that tells you more than maybe you want to know.

You sit there, not moving. Not speaking. Just trying to breathe through the way your chest is tightening — not dramatically, not in some obvious, falling-apart kind of way — but in that slow, internal spiral. The one that feels like your ribcage is shrinking and your brain's getting louder and louder and louder.

You try to remind yourself. This doesn't mean anything.

But your mind is already shifting. Turning in on itself.

Because of course she didn't tell you.

Of course she wouldn't.

Why would she tell you?

Why would she even like you?

That idea — the one that's been quietly blooming in the back of your mind all week, all month, maybe longer — it starts to feel stupid now. Embarrassing, even. Like some weird fantasy you'd let yourself get too comfortable with.

You're suddenly very aware of the way you're sitting. The way your legs are folded under you, the way your hands are twitchy and awkward in your lap. The way your skin feels too hot, too noticeable. Like your body's this loud, clumsy thing that doesn't quite belong in this room anymore.

You feel gross for thinking she might've wanted you.

You try to remember the versions of this conversation you'd played out in your head. The dozens of them. How she'd laugh, maybe softly, say "I was hoping you'd say that." How she'd grab your hand, press your shoulder, look at you the way she sometimes did when you made her laugh hard enough to drop her phone.

And now, all of those fake memories feel pathetic. Like something you should be ashamed of.

Your stomach turns at the thought of actually going through with it — actually saying something to her tonight. What were you even thinking?

You imagine the look she'd give you if you said it now. Not soft. Not kind.

Surprised, maybe. Then confused. Then uncomfortable.

You imagine her pulling back. Saying "Wait... you mean like that?" in that voice she gets when she doesn't know how to let someone down without making it worse.

You imagine her looking at you like she doesn't recognize you. Like this ruined everything.

And you just feel so stupid.

Stupid for reading too much into things. For mistaking shared beds and wine-stained movie nights and "I've been waiting for you all day" as more than what they were. For confusing comfort with closeness. Friendship with something else.

You wonder if there was ever a chance. If it was always one-sided.

And then, you wonder if you've always known that — deep down — and just didn't want to believe it.

You swallow hard. You're still nodding along to whatever she's saying, pretending to listen.

But inside, you're already starting to pull away. Quietly. Subtly. In that way where you're still right next to her but feel like you're three feet outside your own body.

You wanted to disappear. You wanted to be anywhere else but there — in her bedroom, under her soft lamp light, in a moment you had spent all week waiting for... just to realize you were never part of it the way you thought.

Tara was looking at you.

Not in the usual way — not with that spark in her eye when she was teasing you, not with that softness that came after hours of talking when she was too tired to pretend she wasn't fond of you. No, this look... it almost broke you.

Her brow was slightly furrowed. Her mouth parted like she was halfway through a breath she forgot to finish. And in her eyes, something dull and heavy — not pity, not exactly. But close. Close enough that it made your stomach churn.

She looked like she felt bad for you.

You couldn't breathe.

You blinked once, then again, just to force something back down. The tightness in your throat. The sting behind your eyes. The horrible, thick pressure in your chest that made you feel like if you moved even slightly, you'd come undone.

She didn't even know. She had no idea. And still, she was looking at you like that.

Why?

You were embarrassed. Mortified. Your skin was hot in a way that had nothing to do with the room, your palms damp, your whole body tense like it was shrinking in on itself. Like you were trying to vanish under her gaze.

You felt disgusting. Like you'd made a mess of everything without even doing anything.

You couldn't stay there. Not in her bed. Not with her looking at you like she was trying to figure out what she'd done wrong. Not with you feeling this... gross about yourself.

You forced a smile.

It didn't reach your eyes, but it was passable. It had to be.

"That's great," you said, voice carefully even. Too even. Polished like a lie you'd told before.

Tara didn't respond right away. She watched you like she knew it wasn't real, but couldn't prove it.

"I'm happy for you," you added, and the words fell like bricks out of your mouth.

You had to say something else. Something light. Normal. Keep the illusion going. That's what you did, right? So you gave her a weak nudge with your elbow and said, with a breathy laugh that was just barely convincing:

"What, are you gonna start dragging Chad to movie nights now? That poor guy's not gonna survive your commentary."

It wasn't funny. Not really. But you hoped she laughed anyway.

She didn't. Not really. Her mouth twitched like she was trying — trying to smile, trying to match your energy — but it didn't land. Not even close. Her eyes were still too serious. Too full of something else.

She chuckled. Sort of. Quietly. Uncomfortably.

You swallowed hard. Your gaze flickered from her eyes to the floor and back. You were trying to keep it together, but your hands were shaking now. Just barely. Enough that you tucked them under your thighs, like maybe that'd make it stop.

Tara shifted a little beside you. You felt her about to say something. You felt the air change.

"I—" she started, leaning in just slightly, her voice uncertain.

But you didn't want to hear it.

You already knew what it would be — some half-apology, something about not telling you sooner, about not wanting to make it weird. Maybe she thought you were acting like this because she kept it from you. Because she didn't tell you when it started. And maybe, in some version of this moment, that was true.

But what really hurt was that if she had told you earlier... maybe you wouldn't have come there tonight thinking it meant something.

You needed to get out.

And luckily..

Your phone buzzed on the floor, screen lighting up. You didn't even check who it was. You just saw the opportunity and latched onto it like it was a lifeline.

"Oh — shit," you said, voice rushing now, too fast, too flimsy. "I totally forgot, I— I told my grandma I'd call her tonight. Like a check-in thing."

You were already standing up before you finished the sentence, grabbing for your bag, not looking at her.

"I'm sorry, I— I should've remembered. She gets kinda weird when I don't call, and it's already late and—" you cut yourself off, words stumbling over each other.

Tara was staring at you. Like she didn't know whether to stop you or let you go.

"Y/N, wait—" she started, shifting as if to reach out, but she was too far away. Her hand fell uselessly to her side.

You didn't stop. You couldn't.

"I'll text you, okay?" you said quickly, already halfway to the door. You didn't look at her. You couldn't look at her. "I just really have to go. I'm sorry."

Tara didn't chase you. She didn't demand an explanation. But her voice caught a little when she said:

"Okay. Text me?"

It sounded like a question. It sounded forced. It sounded sad.

You nodded. Too fast. Too sharp. "Yeah," you said, still not meeting her eyes. "Of course."

You slung your bag over your shoulder, muttered a quiet "Bye," and walked out.

Her bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

And she was left sitting there on her bed, under soft golden light, alone with two untouched glasses of wine.

The ones you were supposed to finish together.

You didn't hear the silence that followed. You didn't see her stare at the place where you had been sitting, eyes glassy, chest too tight to breathe properly. You didn't see her fingers tap against her knee like they always did when she was spiraling.

You were already walking down her hallway.

The wood creaked in familiar places. Your feet avoided them without thinking. You passed the bathroom you used when you slept over. Passed the kitchen where she made you pancakes last time, even though she'd burned half of them and pretended it was your fault for distracting her. The hallway light was still on. You hadn't turned it off. You hadn't even said goodnight.

You found your shoes by the door. Slipped them on. Slowly. Carefully. Like if you moved too quickly, the emotion that was pressing at your throat might finally break through.

You didn't cry in front of people. Not often. Not if you could help it.

But as you reached for the doorknob, you felt it. A tight sting behind your eyes. Your vision blurred slightly, just enough to make the room shift.

You stepped outside anyway.

The air was colder than you expected. A little damp. The kind of weather that clung to your clothes and made everything feel heavier than it already was. You pulled your sleeves over your hands and walked, steps quiet on her front porch.

Halfway down the street, you lifted your phone to your ear. There was no one on the other end. The lock screen was still lit. But you held it there anyway, just in case.

Just in case she was watching.

And she was.

Tara stood at her bedroom window, one hand on the curtain, the other still curled against her chest like she could keep something in. Like she could hold back the thing she didn't want to admit. Her face was unreadable, but her shoulders were hunched, her posture too still.

She watched you walk away, slow and small under the streetlights. Phone to your ear. Head down.

She didn't know what she was waiting for.

Maybe for you to turn around.

Maybe for herself to run after you.

But neither happened.

You didn't look back.

You kept walking.

And somewhere between her house and your own front steps, a tear slipped down your cheek. Just one. You wiped it away quickly, casually. Like it didn't matter.

But it did.

Because what hurt the most wasn't that she chose someone else.

The messages were short. Abrupt. Some of them didn't answer the question she'd asked. Others didn't say much at all.

Usually, you rambled. You'd send whole paragraphs about things she didn't even fully understand—TV shows you were rewatching, snacks you suddenly hated, how the sun was doing this weird stripe-thing on your bedroom wall that made you think about childhood for some reason. You texted the way you spoke—easily, often, without overthinking it.

You used to text her in waves—message after message, thought after thought, like everything in your head spilled out the second you felt it.

Even when you were tired, even when the day had drained you, you still texted like you were there.

Now, your responses came hours later. Sometimes a full day. And when they did, they were clipped. Blunt in a way that didn't feel intentional—like you weren't trying to push her away, but you didn't have the energy to bring her closer, either.

She'd send something light atleast every day, hoping to spark a little warmth.

How's your day been?

Was the most common one.

Which most times received a reply hours later. You'd answer with just:

fine

Or nothing.

At first, she convinced herself you were just overwhelmed. Maybe something had come up with work, or school. Maybe you were sick. Maybe your phone was just dying all the time. There were always reasons—normal ones.

But it didn't sit right.

She started noticing how rarely you initiated a conversation. How some of her messages went unread for hours. How you didn't ask about her day anymore. How sometimes, when she said something funny or sweet, you'd reply with a single emoji, or not at all.

You used to ask things. Little things.

What she had for lunch. Whether her meeting ran long. If she ever figured out what that weird sound was in her bathroom sink. You used to send links to articles she'd never open, videos that made no sense without context, blurry pictures of your dinner just so you could complain about how bland it turned out.

And now it was like... none of that.

She started checking your activity—saw you were online, sometimes. Not posting, but there. Typing, maybe. Staring at the screen. She wondered if you opened her messages and then just didn't know what to say. If maybe you meant to answer and just couldn't.

That was the part that scared her most—not the silence, but the effort in it. Like responding had turned into something heavy. Like it wasn't just that you didn't want to talk. It was that you couldn't.

And still, she didn't push. She told herself you'd come back around. That maybe tomorrow would be different.

But tomorrow came. And so did the next day.

And you still weren't there.

She knew what it was.

In reality, she'd known the entire time. Not from the first unread message or the first too-short reply, but long before that. There had been a shift. Something subtle, quiet, hard to name. But she'd felt it.

She just didn't want to admit it.

You'd been okay. More than okay, even. For months, you'd been steady. Laughing more. Eating better. Leaving the house, making plans, sticking to them. She remembered thinking, Maybe this is it. Maybe it's passed.

She let herself believe you were better. That it was behind you.

And now, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd let her guard down too quickly. If she'd let herself get too comfortable with your good days. If maybe, in some way, she'd looked away right when you needed her to look closer.

There was guilt—of course there was guilt. The kind that settled low in her stomach and stayed there.

She'd been gone for weeks now. Not gone-gone, just busy. Caught up in press, in work, in the blur of early call times and late-night flights. She hadn't had much time to talk. Some days, all she managed was a good morning text and a voice note she'd record half-asleep from hotel rooms. She figured you understood. You always did.

But now she looked back and realized how long it had been since you sent anything unprompted. Since your voice sounded light. Since you said her name.

And part of her wanted to blame herself. Like maybe her absence was the reason you'd started to slip again. Like maybe she should've made more time. Called more. Asked better questions.

But she also remembered what your therapist had told them both, once—on a rare day you agreed to let her sit in.

That sometimes it didn't have to be triggered by anything. That sometimes it just... returned. Quietly. Without warning. Even when things were going well. Even when everything on the outside looked fine.

That it didn't mean you weren't trying.

Jenna tried to hold onto that. To remind herself this wasn't something she could've prevented just by being closer. But it didn't make the weight in her chest go away.

Because no matter how many times she'd heard it, part of her still felt like she'd missed it—like she'd left you alone with something you didn't know how to carry on your own.

Which was why, when she finally got a few days off from it all, she didn't hesitate.

You hadn't asked her to come. She hadn't asked if you wanted her to. Neither of you had really said anything at all.

But that morning, she sent a simple message.

im coming over in a few

No question mark. No filler. Just a fact.

And after a long pause—maybe ten minutes, maybe fifteen—you replied with a single red heart.

It didn't say much, but it also didn't say no.

That was enough.

She grabbed her keys, pulled a sweatshirt over her head, and left the apartment without bothering to do anything to her face. She didn't need to. You wouldn't care.

The drive over wasn't long—fifteen minutes, give or take—but it felt stretched, quieter than usual. No music. No podcast. Just the soft hum of tires on pavement and the sound of her own thoughts moving faster than the car.

She tried to imagine what your place would look like.

Tried to picture what kind of state you were in—if you'd showered, eaten, if you'd even gotten out of bed at all. She told herself not to assume the worst, but she couldn't help the way her mind filled in the gaps. Curtains drawn. Lights off. Something uneaten on the nightstand. Your phone face-down somewhere across the room.

She gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

A few months ago, she would've called first. Asked if you wanted company. Given you time to clean up or pretend things were fine. But now, it felt like pretending wasn't helping either of you. And she didn't want to be polite about this. Not now.

Not when she knew better.

So she drove. Street after street, passing neighborhoods she barely looked at. The sky was already starting to dim, that kind of muted gray-blue that felt like the day was slipping away before you had the chance to use it.

And she couldn't stop thinking about how many days you'd probably let pass like that—quietly, painfully—without telling anyone.

Without telling her.

By the time she parked, she still didn't know what she was going to say. She just knew she had to be there. Even if all she did was sit on the floor by your bed and stay quiet.

Even if you didn't say anything at all.

She stepped out of the car and pulled her hood up, mostly out of habit. The air had that weird in-between chill—too cold for just a sweatshirt, not cold enough to call it winter. She looked up toward your window automatically, the way she always did when she came over.

It was dark.

Not just dim. Not just drawn curtains with a sliver of light sneaking through. Dark.

She held her breath without meaning to. Exhaled slow. And then she kept walking.

The entrance to your building buzzed faintly as she pushed the door open, nodding once at a neighbor she didn't know by name. She pressed the button for the elevator with her sleeve-covered hand and waited in silence, staring down at the chipped tile floor like it might give her answers.

The ride up felt longer than usual. Every floor that passed made her stomach feel heavier.

She didn't ring the bell when she got to your door. She didn't need to.

You'd given her a key months ago—quietly, almost nervously—right after one of your better stretches. You'd said something like, "Just in case," and she'd nodded, pretending not to overthink it.

She slipped it into the lock now, turned it gently, and pushed the door open.

Inside, it was quiet. Not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful. The kind that sat still and heavy.

She didn't turn on the lights right away.

The living room was mostly shadows, but she could make out the shape of your couch, a blanket balled up at one end. A mug on the coffee table, half-full, probably cold by now. The TV remote was on the floor, like it had slipped out of your hand and never been picked back up. A hoodie—hers—hung over the armrest, untouched since the last time she was here.

Most things hadn't moved.

The book you were halfway through the last time she saw you was still open on the arm of the couch, pages slightly curled. One of your shoes sat by the door. The other was missing, probably somewhere you'd forgotten about mid-step. An empty glass near the sink. A stack of unopened mail, a takeout bag crumpled and left on the counter.

It looked exactly like it had the last time she was here. Like time had pressed pause and never quite resumed.

And she knew why.

You hadn't been up for it. You hadn't had the energy to shift things around, to care whether mugs were in the sink or blankets were folded or whether your place looked lived-in or just stalled.

She finally reached for the light switch, but only flicked on the small lamp near the hallway. It cast a soft, warm glow over the edge of the apartment—not enough to brighten everything. Just enough to see her way forward.

She didn't call out your name yet.

She didn't need to.

You were here. She could feel it. Somewhere inside this too-quiet apartment that still smelled faintly like your perfume and something slightly stale, like air that hadn't moved in days.

She took off her shoes, left them by the door next to yours, and started walking toward your room.

Slowly. Quietly. Like she didn't want to startle you. Like she didn't want to break the air.

The hallway felt longer than usual. Her steps were light, almost uncertain, even though she knew the path by heart. She'd walked this exact stretch of floor so many times—barefoot, laughing, half-asleep, half-dressed—usually following the sound of your voice calling her in.

You always called it our room.

Not my room, not the bedroom. "Our room," even before she ever spent a night there. Even when she still kept most of her clothes in her own apartment. You said it casually, like it was obvious. And after a while, it started to feel that way to her, too.

But now, everything about it felt still.

As she neared the door, she hesitated just outside it. Her hand rested lightly against the frame. The hallway light barely reached the edges of the room, and the rest was black—soft and heavy like the sky before a storm.

She spoke your name. Quiet. Almost careful.

She didn't expect an answer. She just needed the sound of it to be there, in case it helped.

You didn't respond.

She stepped inside.

The fan on the ceiling was spinning slowly, humming in lazy circles above the bed. The curtains were still drawn tight, so tightly that the room had that strange, directionless darkness—no glow from outside, no shape of the hour, no sign of how long it had been like this.

And there you were.

Curled slightly on your side, facing the wall, your back to her. You were wearing a hoodie—one she recognized, one you always seemed to reach for when everything got too loud. The covers were tangled around your legs, pulled only to your waist like maybe you'd gotten too hot, or just didn't bother pulling them higher.

Your arm was half-under your pillow, the other one slack across the mattress, your fingers twitching faintly like you'd just stirred and then stilled again.

The bed was messy, but not in a careless way. More like you'd never properly remade it after the last time you left it—like you'd laid back down one day and just never really gotten up again.

There was a glass of water on the nightstand. Unfinished. Condensation dried at the base. Her scrunchie sat beside it. You must've found it on the floor and placed it there without thinking.

The air was a little stuffy, but not unbearable. Just... unwashed. The scent of your detergent still hung faintly on the sheets. The room smelled like stillness. Like nothing had changed for days.

Jenna stood there for a moment, completely still.

Her chest tightened—not in panic, but in that deep, aching way where it felt like something inside her was sinking. You weren't crying. You weren't moving. You weren't doing anything wrong. But everything about the scene in front of her made her want to reach for you and pull you back into the world.

You looked so small. So tired. Like someone who'd been holding something heavy for too long and finally stopped pretending it didn't hurt.

And Jenna couldn't help the way her throat tightened. The guilt pressed deeper, sharper. She hadn't seen it sooner. She hadn't come sooner.

But she was here now.

And so she did the only thing that felt right—she stepped closer.

Her voice came first, soft and quiet, just above a whisper.

"Hi, baby."

The words floated out gently, barely meant to be heard, but enough to settle into the space between you.

You didn't move. Not fully. But she saw the faintest shift in your shoulder, like your body had registered her voice before your mind had caught up. It wasn't surprise. It wasn't relief. It was just awareness. Like part of you had already known she'd come, even if the rest of you didn't know what to do with that.

She walked closer.

Her hand brushed lightly against the side of the mattress as she rounded it, the sound of her jeans against the bedding quiet but present, familiar. You'd shifted just off-center—laying somewhere between the middle and her usual side—and without a second thought, Jenna moved around to where she always slept.

The room was dim enough that she couldn't see everything clearly, but she didn't need to. She felt her way through the space like she'd done a hundred times before—carefully, quietly, without hesitation.

She lowered herself onto the bed slowly, knees sinking into the mattress, her body folding in behind yours with that same muscle memory she hadn't let herself use in weeks.

And she fit. Perfectly.

You'd left just enough space for her without meaning to.

The sheets were warm, faintly rumpled beneath her, and she adjusted herself just enough to slide an arm around your waist, her hand resting lightly over your stomach. She pressed in close, chest to your back, legs curling slightly to match yours. Her nose brushed the back of your neck—close enough to feel your warmth, close enough to smell your skin.

You still smelled like you.

That faint trace of your shampoo, now dulled by days without washing. Fabric softener. Sweat. Skin. That particular scent of being lived-in, not dirty, just tired. She breathed it in quietly and let her eyes close for a second.

You didn't react. You didn't lean back into her, didn't reach for her hand or shift to make room. But you didn't pull away either. You stayed exactly as you were—quiet, still, sunken. Not tense, not soft. Just... depleted.

Like whatever weight had been pressing down on you had worn your body into this shape, and there was nothing left to hold up or let go of.

Jenna felt it in your shoulders, in the way they didn't drop or flinch. In the steady rhythm of your breathing. You weren't startled. You weren't soothed. You were just there.

And so was she.

She kept her arm around you, fingers resting gently in the fabric of your hoodie. Not gripping. Just touching. Like a tether. Like she didn't expect you to reach back, but needed you to know you weren't alone.

She didn't say anything else. There was nothing she needed to say.

She was here.

And she wasn't going anywhere.

But the quiet started pressing in.

It always did, after a few minutes—once the stillness settled and the adrenaline of getting there faded into something heavier. Once her body stopped moving and her mind started filling in all the empty spaces.

She didn't know how long it had been like this.

A few days, maybe. A week. Longer?

You hadn't said. And the thing was, she hadn't really asked—not in the way she should've. She'd told herself you were just tired. That your silence wasn't that bad. That you probably just didn't want to text. That it was nothing. That you were okay. That you had to be okay.

Because you'd been okay for months. Happy, even. Not cured, not done, just... better.

You'd laughed again. You'd made plans. You'd sent her videos of your breakfast or texts about the weird dream you had or pictures of the stupid hoodie she left at your place that you wore anyway because it smelled like her.

You'd been okay.

And now this.

Now the room smelled like stillness. Like you hadn't opened a window in days. The air was warm but heavy. The lamp on your nightstand was still slightly crooked the way she remembered, your water bottle untouched, your hoodie—hers, actually—bunched under your arm like you'd hugged it at some point and forgot to let go.

She didn't know how long it had been like this.

But she knew this wasn't new.

She knew what it looked like when the color started fading from you. When everything stopped moving. When you started sinking and didn't say a word about it because even you didn't notice at first. Until it was too late.

Her fingers tightened slightly on your hoodie.

She wondered what you'd been thinking in all that quiet. In the days when she wasn't there. In the nights when she didn't call, because she was on set, or because she'd fallen asleep, or because she thought you'd tell her if something was wrong.

But you hadn't.

Were they back?

Those thoughts?

The ones that used to scare her. The ones you used to tiptoe around, used to call "the noise." The ones that made you curl up and disappear into yourself until she had to say your name two or three times just to get you to blink.

The idea that they might be back—that they might've crept in while she was gone, while she was smiling on red carpets and learning her lines and pretending everything was fine—made her bury her face in your neck.

Like she had to feel your pulse against her lips just to make sure you were still here.

She didn't cry.

She just breathed.

And then, quietly—so quietly it barely passed through her lips—she asked:

"What are you thinking about?"

Her voice cracked just slightly at the end. Not enough to sound broken. Just careful.

She felt you stiffen, not from surprise, but like you'd been pulled up from somewhere far away. Not fully back. Not yet. But present enough that your breath hitched a little.

You didn't answer.

But she heard the sound—just the smallest one. A breath through your nose, shaky, wet. A sniffle you didn't try to hide.

And it said enough.

She didn't push. She didn't ask again. Her fingers just curled tighter around your hoodie. Her nose brushed your skin. And she stayed.

The quiet stretched again, but this time it felt heavier. Not like before—not distant. Just waiting.

Jenna didn't move at first. She only breathed. Only kept her face tucked into your neck, her arms loose around your waist like she didn't want to press too hard. Like even pressure might be too much for you right now.

But her voice came, eventually. Soft. Close. Barely louder than a breath.

"Talk to me."

She didn't say it like a demand. She said it like a hope.

Because she wanted you to. She needed to hear your voice. Not because she didn't believe what she was seeing—she did—but because hearing you meant you were still here. Still you. Even if just a piece.

You didn't speak at first. You didn't even shift. And she almost said your name again—almost whispered baby, the way she always did when she wanted to gently bring you back—but then.

"I don't know..."

Barely a whisper. Small. Quiet. Sad.

It cracked right down the middle, like you didn't have the strength to say more. Like a child trying to make sense of something too big. Too invisible. Too inside.

Jenna's eyes burned, but she didn't cry. She just tightened her arm around you and waited.

Then, lower:

"It just...came out of nowhere."

You said it like it caught you off guard. Like you'd been standing in the sun one moment and then suddenly—gone. Like you didn't even know it had started until you were already deep inside it. And Jenna felt something in her chest twist in a way it hadn't in a long time.

She hated how familiar that sounded.

Without speaking, her left hand slid gently up from your stomach to your chest, then higher, until her fingers found your hair.

She didn't play with it, not really.

Just moved her hand slowly. Softly. Stroking near your scalp, her fingers weaving carefully through a few strands and letting them fall again. Over and over. It was barely a movement. But it was steady. It was there.

She pressed her forehead lightly against the back of your head. And for a long time, that was all she did.

No questions. No pressure.

Just a hand in your hair. A warmth behind you. And a voice, finally, in the dark.

"I know."

And then, quieter still.

"I'm sorry."

Jenna stayed like that for a while, hand in your hair, forehead resting gently against you, breathing in the quiet. She wasn't trying to fill it—wasn't trying to talk just to talk—but eventually, the questions came.

They rose up quietly. Hesitantly. Like she was afraid of breaking something fragile between you.

"For how long?" she whispered.

You didn't answer, not right away. Your body shifted just slightly beneath her arm, the kind of small movement that didn't even register unless you were this close. Then you shrugged—barely. A tired, half-hearted lift of your shoulders, like even that felt too heavy. But she understood. Of course she did.

Because she'd seen that shrug before.

Because she knew exactly what you meant.

That time didn't really exist in that state. Days blurred together. Melted. Everything became soft around the edges. You could blink and it would be Tuesday again. Or still. You'd wake up and not know if it was morning or night. If you'd eaten or just thought about it. If the clothes on your body were from yesterday or the day before or some strange in-between you hadn't kept track of.

Jenna's lips parted a little. She wanted to say something, but nothing felt right yet. So she just breathed again, tucked her face into your shoulder, her thumb still brushing the side of your head with that same slow rhythm.

Then, after a pause, softer than before:

"Why didn't you tell me?"

It wasn't accusatory. Not even close. It was gentle. Sad. The kind of question you ask even when you already know the answer, just because part of you hopes you're wrong.

You let out a breath. It caught a little, uneven. And for a second, Jenna didn't think you were going to say anything. But then, voice quiet, worn down:

"I didn't want to ruin anything."

It made her heart drop.

"I didn't want you to worry," you added, even quieter. "You were working. You were excited. I didn't want to... I don't know. Pull you out of that."

Jenna swallowed, eyes stinging again. Her hand stilled in your hair for a moment, then started again, slower this time. Softer.

You weren't trying to be brave. You weren't trying to be strong. You were just trying to stay invisible long enough that she didn't have to see this part of you. Like if you could keep it hidden, it wouldn't matter as much. Wouldn't be real.

But it was. And she was here now.

And she saw you. Every part of you.

Even this.

Especially this.

Jenna didn't speak for a little while. She just stayed close, her arm still draped lightly over your waist, her hand still brushing softly through your hair like she was trying to settle your thoughts by calming your body first.

But then, finally—softly, close to your ear, like a thought spoken aloud:

"Did you eat today?"

There was a pause. Just long enough to give yourself a chance to lie.

You wanted to say yes. She could feel it—the way your body tensed for a second like you were bracing for the effort of pretending. And then you did try. You even got the word out, barely.

"Yeah."

It was small. Weak. Tucked between breaths like maybe she wouldn't hear it if you said it gently enough.

But she did.

And she knew.

She couldn't see your face, couldn't read your expression in the dark, but it didn't matter. She heard it. Felt it. Every part of you gave it away.

She waited a beat, just to give you space. Then:

"When?"

You hesitated again. Then you shifted under her arm—just a little—and said, "I think... yesterday?"

Her heart clenched. Quietly. Heavily.

You swallowed. "I had, like... some crackers. I think. And a juice."

Crackers and juice. That's what you'd had. Maybe. You sounded unsure even about that. Like the memory was faint. Like it belonged to someone else.

Jenna pressed her face a little deeper into your neck, breathing in slowly, grounding herself so she wouldn't let the worry take over her face. So you wouldn't feel her panic. So you wouldn't pull away.

A second passed. Then her voice again—gentle, careful:

"Do you want me to make you something?"

You were quiet.

She waited, patient.

"I'm not hungry."

Your voice was flat. Not defensive, not dismissive. Just empty.

Jenna exhaled slowly through her nose, her arm tightening slightly around your waist.

"You have to eat something."

She didn't say it like a scolding. It wasn't a demand. Just soft truth, spoken like a fact she didn't expect you to argue with.

Her eyes adjusted more to the dark now. She could just barely make out the curve of your shoulder beneath the hoodie, the way your fingers were curled up near your chest. Still. Quiet.

She started thinking.

Something easy. Something warm. Something familiar. She ran through your kitchen in her head, mentally checked what she'd seen on the way in.

"I could make grilled cheese," she said after a moment, barely above a whisper. "With that soup you like. The tomato one. If it's still in your cabinet."

You didn't say anything.

But you didn't say no, either.

Jenna pressed a kiss to the side of your head, barely more than a brush of her lips against your hair, and then she shifted carefully out of the bed. You felt the mattress lift as her weight left it, the cold rush of air where her body had just been.

She didn't say anything else—just moved quietly through the apartment, the way she always did when she didn't want to disturb you. You heard the fridge open. The soft thud of a cabinet closing. A drawer sliding out, then in. The subtle click of the stove turning on.

She knew where everything was.

It didn't take long. The familiar smell of butter and cheese hit the room first, followed by something warmer, tomato-sweet. You hadn't realized how quiet the apartment had been until the faint hum of the microwave started.

When she came back in, her footsteps were soft again. The overhead light stayed off, but she'd turned on the little lamp in the hallway just enough to see.

"Sit up," she said gently, standing by the bed with the plate and bowl balanced in her hands.

You blinked a few times, slow, like it took effort to rejoin the moment—but then you did. You sat up. The hoodie slumped on your frame, and your eyes didn't quite meet hers, but you moved. That was enough.

Jenna smiled, trying to play it casual, even though her chest swelled with quiet relief. She placed the food down on the nightstand, reached for the tray she'd brought in, and set it carefully over your lap.

"I didn't burn it," she said, like a joke. "Somehow."

You gave her the smallest tug of a smile. Barely there. But real.

You didn't eat much. A few bites of the grilled cheese, a couple spoonfuls of soup. But Jenna acted like that was all she'd hoped for.

While you ate, she talked.

Not about you. Not about this.

Just... things.

About how she nearly tripped over a light stand last week during a shoot. How the coffee on set tasted like dishwater. About a movie she'd watched on the plane—terrible, but that you might love it.

She kept her voice light. Calm. Not pushing. Just filling the space with sound so you wouldn't feel watched. So it wouldn't feel like this was something to be ashamed of.

She knew it wasn't a big meal.

But you were eating.

And that meant everything.

Jenna sat beside you again once you'd taken a few more bites. Close, but not crowding. Her leg folded under her on the bed, one hand resting on the mattress between you like she wanted to reach for you but didn't want to rush it.

You didn't finish all of it. The sandwich was half-eaten, the soup mostly cooled now. But you'd eaten. More than she expected. More than you probably had in days.

When you set the tray aside, Jenna took it without a word and placed it back on the nightstand. Her fingers brushed yours for a second—warm, careful—and then she leaned back against the headboard with a quiet sigh, her body angled toward you.

She didn't let the silence settle this time.

"You know they brought bagels to set one morning," she started, like she was picking up from something earlier. "Big boxes of them. Like, fifty. And not one of them was toasted. Just... dry bread with cream cheese."

You let out the smallest breath through your nose. Almost a laugh, but not quite. She took it.

"I tried to ask for a toaster, and someone thought I was being dramatic. Like I was demanding caviar or something."

You pulled the covers higher up your legs. Not out of cold—just to do something. You didn't look at her, but your shoulder relaxed a bit where it leaned near hers.

She kept going. About the director who talked with his hands so much he'd knocked over two water bottles and one light stand in a single day. About the girl from costume who tried to guess people's zodiac signs for fun and got furious when she was wrong.

It wasn't exciting. It wasn't forced.

Just her voice. Just there.

You didn't say anything, but you listened.

And she could tell. In the way your eyes didn't glaze like earlier. In the way your fingers picked slightly at the edge of the blanket. In the way your breathing shifted—not lighter, not completely—but different.

She inched a little closer, folding her leg underneath herself again so she was angled toward you. The bedside lamp cast a low golden wash over the room, just enough to see the edge of your cheek, the slope of your jaw. You looked soft like this. Still so quiet, but soft.

She always thought you were pretty—especially like this. The kind of pretty that didn't try to be. Skin that didn't glow in the filtered Instagram way, but in the real way, warm and familiar. Your lashes were long even when you hated them. Your brows never grew the same on both sides, and it drove you crazy, but she liked that. Liked the unevenness. The human-ness of it.

You never liked the shape of your nose. You'd said that once, and it made her sad—because she did. It made you look a little stubborn and a little strong, and somehow still so soft. She'd memorized that nose. Every curve of it. It was yours.

Without thinking too much about it, she brought a hand to your face and gently tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear. Her fingers lingered for a second against your temple, brushing a few strands off your forehead. The softness of your hair. The warmth of your skin.

"Do you want me to wash your hair?" she asked, quiet as anything. Like an offer, not a suggestion.

Your eyes shifted downward, avoiding hers, and your mouth parted like you were going to say something—but it took a few seconds for the words to come. When they did, your voice was small. Careful.

"It's okay. You don't have to."

You didn't mean it as a rejection. She knew that. It sounded more like a reflex than anything else, like you'd gotten too used to not asking for help. Too used to doing things alone.

Her heart tugged.

"I want to," she said softly. Her hand was still in your hair, still brushing through it slow and steady. "If you'll let me."

You didn't answer.

Not out loud, anyway.

Your throat felt thick, eyes a little hot, and you didn't know why. Or—you did, but you couldn't explain it. You couldn't explain how shame curled up under your ribs and sat there heavy, stupid, wordless.

You couldn't explain how your mind had started spinning the second she offered to help, whispering things like you're pathetic, this is too much, she's going to get tired of this. The kinds of thoughts that didn't even sound like your own voice, but were always waiting in moments like this—when you felt slow and hollow and vaguely embarrassed just to be alive.

You didn't mean to ignore her. You just didn't know how to say yes.

But Jenna didn't wait for it. She'd already seen it in your eyes—seen the way you wanted to nod but didn't, the way you stayed still like a pet that didn't know if it was allowed to move.

She got up slowly from the bed, gave your shoulder a light press, and said, "Come on," her voice warm like the light that hadn't touched your room in days.

Then she held out her hand.

Not expectant. Not dramatic.

Just there. Just for you.

And you reached for it.

Your fingers slid into hers—dry, your knuckles a little tight from how long it had been since you properly moisturized or even noticed your hands at all. But she didn't mind. Her thumb rubbed softly over the back of your hand as she helped you up.

She ran the water while you sat down on the edge of the tub, arms wrapped around yourself in the hoodie you hadn't changed out of in maybe three days. You tried not to think about how you must've smelled, how greasy your scalp probably was, how the sleeves were crusted at the ends. But when you looked up, Jenna was rolling them up for you—gentle, unrushed, like it was nothing.

You sat in the bathtub, legs tucked in, hoodie peeled off and tossed in the hallway. The warmth of the water rising around your shins made your throat close again. It always did. That first feeling of being cleanable. Of being touched.

Jenna knelt beside you on the tiles, one hand resting steady on your back as she used the other to scoop water over your hair. She was quiet. So were you. Not in a tense way—just in that way where sound didn't matter as much as being careful.

She used your shampoo. The one she liked because it smelled like the candle she always burned in her apartment. Her fingers moved in small circles on your scalp, gently scratching, not too hard, but firm enough to make your shoulders drop for the first time in what felt like hours. Maybe days. The kind of touch that was meant for more than just cleaning.

Somewhere between rinsing and conditioning, she said, "Tilt your head back for me" and you did.

You closed your eyes.

Water ran down your cheeks like tears you didn't have the energy to cry.

She brushed the hair back from your face again, using both hands this time. Tucked it behind your ears. Cupped your jaw with wet palms for just a second before letting go.

There was something unspeakably kind about the way she dried you, too. Careful with the towel, slow when she helped you into a clean shirt. She didn't flinch when she touched your arm and felt how cold it still was, how tense your body stayed even now. She just helped you into it like you were someone worth caring for.

And you let her.

You didn't say much. But when she pulled your sleeve over your wrist, you looked at her, just for a second.

You put on clean clothes.

The shirt Jenna had handed you was soft, oversized, smelled faintly of her laundry detergent—warm, lavender-like. You brushed your hair too. She did most of it, careful to hold it near the roots when pulling through the knots so it wouldn't tug too much at your scalp. You didn't talk. Not because you didn't want to, but because it felt like too much. And somehow, Jenna already understood that.

The apartment was quiet except for the sound of her picking a movie. She didn't ask what you wanted to watch. She just chose something familiar. Something you'd both seen before. The kind of movie that didn't ask anything from you—no energy, no focus. Just something to fill the space without making it feel too full.

You laid in bed together, blankets tucked around your legs, her body curled close beside yours. She watched the screen, eyes tracking every scene, but not really for the story. More for you.

Because you weren't watching.

Your eyes were open, but distant. Barely blinking. Glazed over in that particular kind of way that made Jenna's chest ache. Not just because she was worried, but because she knew that look too well.

Your eyes were red around the edges, waterline stained, like you'd cried recently but hadn't even realized. Your skin was pale and soft in the glow of the screen, the kind of pale that didn't come from winter or bad lighting, but from spending too much time indoors. The color had slipped out of you quietly, the way everything else had. Bit by bit.

And Jenna could see it.

She didn't say anything about it. She just reached over and rested her hand against your arm, thumb brushing softly back and forth, like a quiet anchor. You didn't look at her, didn't move, but she felt the way your body leaned into it slightly. Just enough.

She knew she couldn't pull the thoughts from your head. Couldn't chase away the heaviness that sat behind your ribs, the fog that blurred out time, the ache that made everything feel flat and unreal. She knew depression wasn't something you could solve for someone. You couldn't love it out of them. You couldn't fix it with soft words or hand-washed hair or warm food. But you could stay.

You could sit beside them through the numbness.

You could hold their hand when they forgot how to ask for help.

You could help them brush their hair when their arms were too heavy.

You could watch them fade and still choose to stay.

And that's what Jenna did.

Because loving someone with depression meant showing up even when they didn't answer the door. It meant learning their silences, knowing when not to ask questions, when to nudge and when to wait. It meant reading between the lines of a text, the stillness of their body, the flicker of their eyes—and knowing this is enough for now.

She didn't need you to smile. Didn't need you to talk. She just needed you here.

And you were.

That was the thing.

No matter how quiet or far away you felt inside your own skin, you were still here. In clean clothes. Hair combed. Laying beside her, breathing in time with the sound of the movie you weren't watching.

And she was here, too.

So even if everything else still felt broken and heavy and too hard to carry—this part didn't.

As long as she was beside you, you'd find your way through. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not soon.

The light seeping through the window was barely there—muted and gray—but it still felt too bright. Too sharp. Her body ached, her stomach turned, and for a second, just one stretched-out second, she didn't move. Couldn't. Her limbs were heavy and her brain wasn't quite connected to them yet.

She just laid there, eyes barely open, blanket twisted halfway off her and her face pressed against the cold side of the pillow. Everything felt wrong. Not in a huge, obvious way—but in those small, creeping details. Her throat hurt. Her wrists were sore. Her mouth tasted like stale vodka and nothing else.

She didn't remember getting home.

She didn't remember changing into the old hoodie she was wearing, or where her jeans had ended up. There was a vague memory of a party—someone pouring drinks straight into her mouth, someone laughing too loud—but it cut off halfway through, like a film reel yanked from a projector.

She forced herself to sit up. Immediately regretted it.

Her stomach flipped, her head pounded harder, and for a second she thought she might actually throw up all over her sheets. Everything swayed. Her mouth opened like she was going to call for Sam—ask what time it was, ask what happened—but nothing came out.

There were red plastic cups on her nightstand. Her phone face-down on the floor. Her boots still by the door, laces untied like she'd stumbled out of them and never looked back. The smell of her room felt unfamiliar—sweaty, a little bitter, like something had gone sour in the air overnight.

She didn't know why her chest hurt.

Didn't know why she suddenly felt this cold, creeping sense of dread curling around her spine.

But something was off. Something was really off.

And deep down, under the nausea and the headache and the aching in her arms—Tara knew she had done something she wasn't supposed to.

Her mouth was dry. Her hands shook a little as she leaned over the side of the bed, blinking hard against the pounding in her head. Her phone was face-down on the floor, screen dark, case cracked in the corner from how carelessly she must've dropped it the night before.

She picked it up with slow fingers.

The screen lit up the moment she pressed the side button—too bright, sharp enough to make her flinch and squint. For a second, everything blurred together. Just white light and motion and the sound of blood rushing in her ears. She dragged the brightness all the way down with one hand, already feeling like she might pass out.

Notifications were stacked like bricks on her lock screen.

Snaps from people she barely remembered being with. Tag after tag on Instagram stories—her name glowing above blurry party videos, red cups, someone screaming her name in the background, laughter that didn't feel funny anymore.

Her thumb hovered above one of them, and for a moment she thought maybe she should look. Maybe watching it would tell her what she did. Maybe it would explain the sick, guilty twist in her stomach.

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

Not yet.

She just laid there, phone still in her hand, screen dimmed low, thumb twitching over it like her body was acting without permission.

You hadn't texted her.

No "did u get home safe?"

No "i love you to the moon and back."

No "call me in the morning."

Not even a heart.

And that—it sat in her chest heavier than anything else.

She waited a beat. Then another. Her fingers scrolled anyway, like maybe she'd missed something. Maybe your name was buried under everything else. But it wasn't. And even if it was, she would've seen it. She would've felt it.

Because she always did.

Tara swallowed. Her throat was tight, her head still pounding—but that wasn't why her eyes were starting to sting.

She wanted to tell herself you were just asleep. Or mad at something stupid. Or being petty. But deep down, somewhere underneath the throb in her temples and the fog in her memory—she knew.

She knew why you hadn't texted.

She didn't remember what she said. Didn't remember much of anything past her second or third drink. But her whole body felt like it was holding something ugly. Something sharp. Like the truth was there already, just out of reach, crouched in the shadows and waiting to spring.

And the scariest part was that she didn't even need anyone to tell her.

She already felt it.

It was in her throat, her stomach, the dull throb behind her eyes. It was in the silence of her phone screen. In the hollow ache where your name used to sit.

She checked the time again—2:17 PM.

Shit.

Her mouth was dry as sandpaper. Her tongue felt too thick. She hadn't even noticed how bad she felt until now, but the moment she moved—just shifting her legs off the bed and planting her feet on the floor—her body caught up to her.

The nausea rolled in sharp and fast. The room tilted. Her vision swam. Her head fell into her hands and stayed there for a second, long enough for her to consider crawling right back under the covers and never coming out again.

But then she heard something clatter in the kitchen.

Plates. Water running. Sam. Tara could hear her humming, low and absent-minded, like she didn't even realize she was doing it. The normalness of it almost pissed her off.

Tara forced herself to stand. Slow.

Her knees buckled under her for half a second, and she grabbed the edge of the dresser just to stay upright. Her stomach turned again, and she swallowed down the burn in her throat. Her body was screaming don't move, lie back down, you're going to throw up, but she ignored all of it.

She told herself she was used to this.

She always told herself that. Every time she drank too much. Every time she woke up like this. She knew the drill, right? Water, painkillers, coffee if she could hold it down. She told herself it was fine because she'd done it so many times before.

But it wasn't fine.

She wasn't used to this. She hated it. Her body hated it. And worse—some part of her remembered that this wasn't just another hangover. Not this time.

Not after whatever the hell she did.

She braced herself with one hand on the wall and started toward the door.

The hallway light was too bright. Every sound in the apartment felt ten times louder than it should've been. Her socks dragged against the hardwood, her whole body moving like it didn't want to belong to her anymore.

She blinked her way into the kitchen, not ready, not even close.

Sam was standing by the sink, rinsing a mug. Coffee steamed behind her. She didn't look over at first.

And Tara didn't say a word.

She hovered near the doorway, trying not to breathe too loud, trying not to exist too loud. Everything about her felt too heavy, too hot, too visible. She could still feel her makeup on her face, sticky and smudged and clinging to the corners of her eyes. Her mascara probably flaked. Her lipstick definitely wasn't where it was supposed to be.

Which was why she didn't even try to meet Sam's eyes.

Instead, she turned slightly—barely, just enough to angle herself toward the TV mounted on the far wall, even though it was still muted from last night. Some news broadcast was looping again. Headlines flashed. A weather map hovered in the corner. But she wasn't reading any of it. She just didn't want Sam to see her face.

Maybe if she didn't look like she was in the room, Sam wouldn't say anything.

No such luck.

Footsteps behind her. Soft.

And then—

"Throw up yet?"

Tara flinched so hard she nearly folded. Her hand flew to her chest as she spun around, wild-eyed.

"Jesus— Fuck, Sam," she muttered, the sound barely above a whisper as she tried not to aggravate the headache any more than it already was. "Don't sneak up on me."

Sam just grinned, lifting the mug in her hand like a toast. "Wasn't sneaking."

She was definitely sneaking. Tara could hear it in her tone—the same smug, older-sister tone that meant I caught you even when she hadn't said it outright.

Tara just groaned, dragging her fingers through her tangled hair as she slumped forward against the counter.

Sam stepped past her again, cracking open the fridge and pulling out juice with one hand.

The smell of coffee was sharper in the air now, making Tara's stomach clench. She breathed through her nose, slow, careful.

Tara finally made it to one of the chairs by the kitchen island and dropped into it like her bones were liquid.

A beat passed. Two. She didn't lift her head.

"You look like roadkill," Sam said, not unkindly.

Tara didn't even argue. "I feel like roadkill."

She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to block out everything—light, sound, thought, memory. Her head was pounding. Her stomach felt like it had flipped inside out and then spun in a blender. Her skin was hot and clammy and wrong.

"I'm surprised you're even awake," Sam muttered over her shoulder. "Figured you'd be out cold until tomorrow morning."

The way she said it—light, offhanded—told Tara everything she needed to know.

Sam had been the one to get her home. Sam had seen it. Or some of it.

And if Sam had seen it...

Tara swallowed, throat dry.

Her head stayed down, but her mind was running, panicked and unfocused, like someone flipping through a slideshow too fast. Snapshats of the night blurred together. Music. Lights. Voices she couldn't match to faces. A drink in her hand. Then another. Then another.

And the scariest part was—still—she didn't even know what she was trying to remember.

Sam sipped from her glass, the quietest sound in the room. She didn't say anything for a second. Just leaned against the counter, the morning light catching on the steam from her coffee. Then, with a glance over her shoulder, she reached for the carton of juice she'd set on the counter.

The fridge door still hung slightly open behind her as she unscrewed the cap and poured a slow, steady stream into a clean glass. The sound filled the silence for a second — soft, but sharp to Tara's ears.

Then, without looking, she slid a glass of juice across the island toward Tara.

"Drink," she said.

Tara didn't move. Didn't even blink.

The thought of putting anything in her stomach made her nauseous. Her head was still pounding, too loud for thoughts, and her mouth tasted like cheap vodka and sleep. She stared at the glass like it might turn into something else if she waited long enough.

"Did you talk to Y/N?"

Tara's gaze didn't move from the juice.

"...What?" she asked. It was barely more than a breath, but it cracked a little.

"Last night," Sam said, like it was obvious. Like Tara should've known exactly what she meant.

Tara blinked. Her hands gripped the edge of the stool beneath her, hard.

She felt a flicker—like static under her skin.

Did she talk to you?

She tried to chase it, chase you in her memory, but all she found were fragments. Flashlights. Music. Your face for a second too long across a crowd. And then someone else's hand tugging her somewhere, and then— nothing.

She wanted to answer. She wanted to know. But there was this panicked emptiness where you should've been. Just flashes.

"I..." she started, but it slipped. Her head was too loud. Her thoughts too scrambled.

"She went with you last night. Right?"

Tara blinked. The words felt like they should make sense. They did, kind of. She remembered that. You walking beside her. You'd tried to make some stupid joke about her boots — something about them being too clean for a party, and she hadn't answered because she was mad like always.

Yeah. Yeah, you were definitely with her.

"I think so," she mumbled. "We walked there together... I think."

Sam didn't respond, and that silence only made the static louder.

Tara dragged a hand through her hair. It felt like moving through molasses. "And then... I don't know."

The silence stretched.

She squinted at the table like it would give her something. Anything. The kitchen was too bright now — the sun slanting through the window, catching the edge of the juice glass she still hadn't touched. Her stomach twisted at the thought.

There had to be more. You were with her. You stayed close. You always stayed close.

So why couldn't she see your face?

Why did it feel like her memory just... stopped?

"You really don't remember?" Sam's voice was quieter now. Less teasing. Almost concerned.

Tara blinked. Her fingers curled slightly against the edge of the kitchen island. "What?" Her throat felt dry. "Why? Did something happen? Is she—" She swallowed. "Is she okay?"

Sam hesitated.

That alone made Tara's heart skip.

"She's fine," Sam said finally, pouring herself another half-glass of juice like she was trying to give Tara a second to breathe. "I mean—I think she is. I didn't talk to her."

Tara's stomach dropped. "Then what—what are you talking about?"

Sam leaned a hip against the counter, not looking at her right away. "Chad called me to come pick you up. You were out of it." A short pause. "I guess you'd already... said some stuff by then."

Tara looked up slowly. "Said stuff?"

Sam glanced at her, like she was deciding how far to go. "Mindy told me you were kind of... going off. Rambling. Outside the house. She and Chad were keeping an eye on you. You were saying things. About her. About Y/N."

Tara's face went blank.

Sam shifted her weight, folding her arms now. "They didn't give me details, okay? But they looked uncomfortable. You were saying how you didn't like her. Or didn't want her. Something like that. That she meant nothing. I don't know."

Tara's stomach twisted. She hadn't even had the juice, and now she felt like she was about to throw up anyway.

"They said it sounded... mean," Sam added, almost gently. "Like it wasn't just drunk talk."

Tara's chest tightened. Her ears rang a little. She remembered walking to the party with you. She remembered you trying to get her to slow down—reaching for the red cup in her hand, saying her name too gently for how serious your eyes looked. She remembered getting annoyed. Snapping at you, maybe. Pulling away. Saying she was fine.

After that?

Just noise. A blur. Faces. Loud music. You weren't beside her anymore. She couldn't even picture where you'd gone. Couldn't hear your voice in the chaos of her head. And then—

Nothing.

And now Sam was saying she'd ruined it. That she'd hurt you. That she'd said the one thing she'd always sworn she wouldn't.

And she didn't even remember it.

Until.

It hit her before she even knew what she was remembering.

Not in pieces this time. Not the flicker of a blurry image or a half-felt sensation. But all at once. A full-body jolt.

Like cold water down her back. Like a slap. Not just because she finally remembered—but because how she remembered. Your face. That exact look. Like someone had just pulled the floor out from under you, and you were still trying to figure out whether you were falling or already broken on the ground.

She felt it all at once: your voice going quiet, your hand brushing hers to try and steady her drink, the way she shoved you off. How you tried, so gently, to make her slow down. And how that made her angrier. How she'd started snapping, one slurred, defensive line after the other, trying to humiliate you—you—as if hurting you was some kind of shield against whatever she was feeling.

She hadn't just said one thing. She'd said everything. All the worst things you'd probably ever feared she thought of you. Things that weren't true—weren't real—not in any way that mattered. But she said them. She said them.

And the worst part was she meant it in the moment. Or at least, she'd wanted to. She'd wanted to make you shut up. She'd wanted to stop feeling guilty. She'd wanted to keep drinking and stop caring. You had made her feel seen—too much, too clearly—and she punished you for it.

She remembered the way your mouth opened like you might say something, but didn't. She remembered the way you just... turned. Walked away. Not stormed. Not shouted. You just left, and she let you.

And the silence after that?

She hadn't even noticed it at the time. She was too busy calling out to someone else—someone who wasn't you. Laughing like none of it mattered. Like she'd won.

Tara felt the blood rush out of her face. She was gripping the counter without realizing it, like something might give out underneath her if she didn't.

You'd left.

Not just the party. Not just the room.

You'd left her.

Right?

And she hadn't even gone after you.

The thought barely formed before she felt it clench deep in her chest. Tight, nauseating.

Her eyes stayed locked on the same spot in front of her, but her throat tightened like it was trying to hold something back—words, a sound, maybe the taste of bile.

You walked home. Alone.

You didn't tell anyone. You didn't wait.

And she hadn't been worried. Hadn't even noticed. Because she'd been too busy drunk and loud and throwing away the one thing she swore she'd never lose.

The guilt flooded her so quickly it didn't even feel real.

She blinked once. Twice. Shallow breaths. No thoughts. Just that image—your face, your back, your absence.

And then—

"...She left," Tara said quietly, but not like a question. More like the beginning of one.

Her voice cracked halfway through, like her chest couldn't support it.

"She left," she repeated, this time like she needed to hear it said aloud to believe it. "Didn't she?"

Sam's voice came quiet, cautious. She was still standing a few feet away, arms crossed, like she wasn't sure if this was the moment Tara was going to fall apart or try to fight the truth back down.

"I don't know," Sam said after a second, her tone uneven. "I think Mindy said she saw her leaving—"

"No," Tara cut in, sharper than she meant to. Her voice cracked with it, but she didn't stop. "Not the party."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"She left me," Tara said, the words catching in her throat. Her heart felt like it was fighting its way up into her mouth. "Do you think she... she left me?"

The words made the room feel too still. Too heavy.

Sam's mouth opened, then closed again.

Tara swallowed, but it didn't help. Her chest felt too tight now, like her ribs couldn't quite make room for the realization settling inside her. It didn't even sound real when she said it out loud. But it was. It was.

There was a long pause before Sam answered. Not because she didn't know, but because there wasn't really an answer that wouldn't hurt.

Sam didn't respond right away. She just watched her for a second, eyes unreadable, then turned back to the sink. She lifted her mug from the counter and rinsed it out without ceremony, the faint clink of ceramic the only sound in the room.

"Maybe she had enough," she said finally.

Calm. Almost matter-of-fact. Like it wasn't cruel. Like it wasn't personal. Like she hadn't just torn Tara's chest open with five quiet words.

But maybe that was what made it hurt more—how obvious it sounded when someone else said it.

Tara didn't respond. Her legs felt unsteady under her, like she'd fall over if she stood up. Her hands were still curled tight around the edge of the counter, and her nails dug into the wood to keep herself grounded. But the silence between them had changed. It wasn't confusion anymore. It wasn't even shock.

It was shame.

The kind that curled low in her stomach and sat there like rot.

She didn't say anything after that. Just stood there, half-hunched over the kitchen island, staring at nothing while her thoughts spun too fast and too loud to hold onto. Sam didn't press. She didn't look at her again. Just left her there in silence like she always did once she decided a conversation was over.

The quiet made it worse.

Tara didn't even remember walking back to her room. Just the way the door clicked shut behind her, how her hands shook as she reached for her phone like it might anchor her to something. You. It had to be you. She could fix this. She could explain. She could say she didn't mean any of it—that she didn't even remember saying it.

She opened your contact. Typed fast. Fingers flying over the keyboard.

please please answer

i'm sorry

i didn't mean any of it

i swear

just talk to me

you don't understand

i don't remember half of it

you mean everything to me

One after another, rapid fire. As if filling the silence might undo it. As if saying enough might make you forget everything she'd already said. But the texts sat there, unread. Unmoved. Cold and still and gray.

So she called.

Once.

Twice.

A third time—voicemail.

And then she just stared at the screen, her hand trembling against her leg, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Of course. Of course you didn't answer. Of course you left. She'd said the worst things someone could say, and she hadn't even had the decency to remember it.

You were supposed to be the one thing that stayed.

She thought she could be cruel and selfish and reckless and you'd still be there. She thought you'd always be there.

That's what made her stomach turn.

When the tears finally came, they didn't fall hard. They just built slowly in her eyes until the screen blurred and she had to blink them away. It wasn't dramatic. It was just empty. Numb. This tight, ugly pressure in her chest like she didn't even deserve to cry.

Down the hall, she could hear Sam moving around again. Calm. Normal. Like none of this surprised her.

And maybe it didn't.

Maybe, to Sam, this was just what Tara did. She partied too hard. Got too loud. Blew things up and expected someone else to clean the pieces.

Maybe Sam had been waiting for this to happen.

Maybe she thought it was only a matter of time.

And maybe she was right.

Tara didn't say anything else that day. She didn't come out of her room. She barely moved. The hours stretched long and slow, and every one of them felt heavier than the last. Time passed, but it didn't feel like it. It just stalled—like everything was stuck in that one moment where she realized she had lost you, and the world hadn't even flinched.

She texted you again that night. And again Sunday morning. None of them said anything new. Just different ways of saying please.

i know i don't deserve it but please

i'll say it to your face. i'll explain everything

just tell me where you are

please just tell me if you're okay

She typed out a message asking if she could come over. She stared at it for ten minutes. Deleted it. Rewrote it. Deleted it again. Her thumb hovered over the "send" button more than once—but she couldn't do it. It felt selfish. Like showing up would only make it worse. Like it wasn't her place anymore.

By Sunday night, the silence had started to feel like punishment. Like you were proving a point. And maybe she deserved that. But it didn't stop her from checking your messages every twenty minutes like something might've changed. Like your name might light up her screen again if she just stared long enough.

Then Monday came.

She never went to school on Mondays. That was her rule. She spent most weekends drinking, and Sundays trying to pretend it hadn't been a mistake. Mondays were her reset button. The day she used to feel like she was in control again. If she skipped school, made some coffee, cleaned her room, maybe she could pretend she had her life together.

But this weekend had been different.

She hadn't gone to a party on Saturday. Hadn't had a drink. The thought made her feel sick. Because that's what ruined everything. That's what took you away from her. That night. That version of her.

And all weekend, she'd told herself she'd talk to you. That she'd fix it. That maybe if she could just see you, just look you in the eye, you'd know. You'd feel it. The guilt. The regret. The part of her that still loved you, still wanted you, still needed you like air.

So she got up.

She got dressed.

And for the first time in months, she walked into school on a Monday—not because she wanted to, but because she didn't know where else you might be.

Because if there was even a chance of seeing you...

She was going to take it.

The hall was already loud by the time she got there—voices bouncing off lockers, shoes squeaking against floors that hadn't been mopped properly in weeks. Nothing had changed. The school looked the same. The same posters peeling off the walls, the same cracked corners of tile near the stairwell, the same slow current of students moving in predictable patterns.

But to Tara, it felt different. Off. Like she was moving through a memory that didn't belong to her anymore.

She scanned the corridor. Shoulders, backpacks, faces. A blur. Then—

You were there.

By your locker, pulling it open with that familiar twist of your wrist, backpack sliding halfway off your shoulder. Her chest squeezed at the sight of you—whole and present and real. You were here. Right in front of her.

She started walking, even though her feet felt too loud and her throat felt too dry. She hadn't thought this through. Hadn't figured out what she was going to say, or how. She just kept going.

"Y/N!"

You turned partway through pulling a notebook from the shelf. Your eyes met hers.

And you looked surprised. Just for a split second.

Of course you hadn't expected her to show up. She never did on Mondays.

But then your expression shifted—not into a smile, not into a frown. Just... dropped. Like the weight of her presence pulled something neutral even lower.

"Hey," she said, breath shallow.

"Hi," you answered, quiet. Flat. Not cold, not warm. Just... there.

And for a moment, that was all there was. Just the two of you, standing like strangers. Strangers with too much history in their bones.

Tara's hands were shaking.

"I—" Her voice caught. She tried again. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. I am sorry. I was so drunk, I didn't even know what I was saying, and I know that's not an excuse but—"

"It's fine, Tara."

Her mouth shut instantly.

You didn't even look at her when you said it. You kept your eyes on your notebook, like it had something more important to say. Like you didn't want to be here. Like she was just someone you had to endure, not someone you used to love.

It wasn't fine. God, it wasn't even close.

She stared at you, eyes wide, her whole face aching with something she couldn't name. She opened her mouth to try again, to explain herself better, to make you understand—

"I know I said awful things, but I didn't mean any of them, I just— I was drunk and mad and I—"

"I said it's fine," you repeated.

Not harsh, not loud. Just... final.

Tara opened her mouth again—something soft and desperate already forming—but you cut in first.

"I just—I think we're over for now. Okay?"

Tara's face fell.

You didn't wait for her to say anything. Just closed your locker with a soft click, the sound somehow louder than everything else in the hallway. Then you turned to her, offered a smile so faint it barely passed for one. It didn't touch your eyes, didn't soften your features, didn't mean anything at all.

And then you walked away.

Tara watched you go. The words sitting in her chest like they didn't know where to land.

Over for now.

She hadn't expected you to say that. Not like that. Not with a voice so calm, so certain, like you'd been turning those words over all weekend, holding them up to the light, already making peace with them.

She hadn't made peace with anything. Not even close.

Her stomach tightened, something bitter climbing into her throat. Her hands felt awkward—halfway to reaching for you, but she hadn't. She didn't even know if she had the right to.

The hallway kept moving around her, the usual Monday noise: sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming, someone shouting across the corridor. She could hear it all, but none of it felt real. It was background.

You had walked away from her like it didn't even hurt.

And maybe it didn't. Maybe it had already hurt when she said what she said to you. Maybe that part had already passed. Maybe this was just you... done.

She looked down at her shoes like they might offer an answer, but they didn't.

Her throat felt tight. Not enough to cry. Just enough to make it hard to swallow.

Over for now.

It echoed. Quiet, but constant.

It echoed. Quiet, but constant.

Tara stayed by your locker longer than she meant to, still standing there long after the conversation had ended—if it even qualified as one. She thought about leaving. Actually leaving. Just walking out the front doors and going home like she used to, like Mondays never mattered.

For a moment, she even started to.

But then she stopped herself.

She hadn't come all this way just to run again. And besides, going home would only make it worse. She'd lie on her bed and stare at the ceiling and think about your voice and the way your eyes didn't flinch when you said it—we're over for now. Like you'd already practiced it. Like it wasn't up for debate.

So she turned around, stuffed her hands in her pockets, and kept walking.

The rest of the day passed in a blur—not because she wasn't paying attention, but because she was too aware of everything. Of the way the classroom light bounced off the windows. Of how loud her footsteps sounded when she walked down the hallway alone. Of how her phone stayed stubbornly silent every time she checked it, like it was mocking her.

She thought about trying again. Maybe catching you by the cafeteria or outside the library, maybe trying to say what she actually meant this time. That it hadn't been true. That she hadn't meant a word of what she said at the party, not a single one.

But every time she pictured walking up to you, all she could think about was the look on your face this morning. The way you'd stood so calmly, so... settled. Like you weren't hoping for anything from her anymore. Like there was nothing left to fix.

She didn't want to humiliate herself.

So she didn't go looking. Not really. She just... let the day happen to her.

You passed her in the hallway once. Just once. Between fourth and fifth period. You were with someone else—Anika maybe, or someone from your math class, she couldn't remember. You weren't smiling, not really, but you didn't look sad either. You looked like someone trying to focus on something else. Or someone who already had.

Your eyes flicked toward her for half a second. Not enough to count as anything.

Tara glanced away first.

You didn't even have classes together on Mondays. That used to be another one of her excuses—not showing up because you weren't around to make it worth it. Now it just felt like another stupid thing she'd wasted.

The rest of the day passed in pieces. Lunch she barely touched. A quiz she couldn't concentrate on. Every hallway felt too narrow, like her body took up more space now that she wasn't walking beside you.

By the time the final bell rang, Tara felt like she was floating above herself—watching her own hands pack her bag, watching her own legs walk toward the front doors. There was a lump in her stomach that had been sitting there all day. Thick and unmoving. Regret, maybe. Or just the weight of everything she hadn't said soon enough.

The air outside was sharp. She didn't wait for anyone. Just walked straight home.

She dropped her bag inside the front door and went to her room without speaking. The house was quiet—Sam must've still been at work. For once, that was a relief. Tara didn't think she had the energy to pretend like she hadn't been holding her breath all day.

She lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. The regret didn't go away. It had a shape now. A voice. Yours.

And the worst part was... it made sense.

Tara didn't want to admit that to herself, but it was true. You had been patient. You'd tried. Again and again. She was the one who got defensive. Who snapped. Who said things she didn't mean just because she didn't want to feel small or scared or guilty. She was the one who drank too much, the one who forgot her limits—and then forgot how to love you properly when you were just trying to help.

You'd always been so gentle with her. Even when she didn't deserve it.

And now you were gone.

The days after that blurred together, just a slow repeat of the same heaviness. She thought about texting you constantly. Every morning she'd unlock her phone, stare at your contact, and tell herself not yet. That maybe you just needed space. That if she gave you time, maybe she could explain things better. Maybe you'd still listen.

But two days in, she gave in.

It wasn't a long message. Just a string of apologies, one after the other. No punctuation. Just desperation.

im sorry i mean it

im so sorry.

please let me explain

please.

She sent another later that night.

i'll do better if you just give me a chance i swear i will

you don't even have to take me back i just want to talk

And still—nothing.

It was embarrassing, if she was being honest. Embarrassing to keep trying when you clearly didn't want to hear it. But she didn't know how else to fix it. She didn't want to get over it. Not yet. Not like this.

A few nights later, out of sheer habit, she almost typed goodnight ily before bed. Her fingers hovered over the keys, the words half-formed. But she caught herself before sending it. Sat there staring at the blinking cursor until the screen dimmed and she had to put the phone facedown on the nightstand, throat tight.

School was worse.

You didn't avoid her. That would've been easier. You still walked past her in the halls sometimes, head tilted slightly, as if acknowledging her was still polite. Sometimes you even offered a small smile—but it was the kind people give strangers they almost recognize, like you weren't sure if it was okay to look at her anymore.

And she'd ruined that. She knew she had.

So she started pulling back too. Not out of pride—God, if she had any pride left, she would've stopped texting a long time ago—but because it hurt too much to try.

By the time Friday came, she expected to feel the usual pull toward a party. Toward noise. Distraction.

But she didn't go.

She stayed home.

She didn't want to drink—not after everything it had cost her. And besides... she didn't feel like putting on the act. She didn't feel like pretending she didn't care. She just wanted to be quiet. Maybe even get better.

For you.

Or maybe just for herself.

You, on the other hand, didn't seem to care about limits at all.

But then came the posts.

It started as background noise — a flick through Instagram late Friday night, more out of habit than anything else. Her thumb slowed when she saw the first highlight cover. A familiar house. A too-familiar username. One of the people who never missed a party.

Tara tapped it before she could second-guess herself.

The video was short, chaotic. Flashing lights. Loud music. Phones in the air, bodies swaying in time with each other. But you stood out immediately. Right in the middle, drink in hand, surrounded by people she didn't recognize. Your head tilted back in laughter, someone brushing glitter onto your cheek.

Tara stared.

She hadn't even known you knew those people. Had never heard you mention them. Never seen them around you. You looked like you belonged, though—or at least like you were trying to.

The next story was even clearer. A video, shaky and zoomed in, your name tagged across the bottom. You were dancing with someone she definitely didn't know, spinning clumsily with a smile that didn't quite sit right on your face. Your eyes looked glassy. Your movements a little too loose.

And still... you looked good.

God, you looked so pretty.

Tara had locked her phone without watching the rest.

But the next day, there were more. Snapchat stories from random classmates, reposted clips, tagged photos. It wasn't even hard to find them—if she opened her phone, they were already there.

You weren't in every frame, but you were around. Lingering in the background. Leaning against kitchen counters, caught in mirror selfies, sitting cross-legged on someone's porch steps with a red cup balanced between your knees.

Tara couldn't stop looking. Couldn't stop searching, even when she wanted to.

It wasn't just that you were going out. It was how you were doing it. You didn't look like someone who was just tagging along. You looked like someone who was trying to forget. Someone who wasn't thinking twice about limits or consequences. Someone who wasn't afraid to lose control the way you used to be.

Back when you came to parties only to manage her. To make sure she didn't drink too much. To carry her home when she couldn't stand straight. Now you were drinking like she used to. Laughing too loudly. Stumbling in heels she'd never seen you wear.

And in the first few clips, you looked fine. More than fine. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, hair a little messy like you didn't care.

But the ones that came after... they were different.

Your smile didn't quite reach your eyes. Your balance was off. You clung to people she didn't recognize just to stay upright. You looked... out of it. Not blackout drunk, not completely gone, but far from the version of you she remembered. The version who always left early. Who always texted Tara before bed to make sure she'd gotten home.

Now you didn't even look like you were going home at all.

And it hit her—sudden and cold—that you didn't seem to care about avoiding the same things that ruined everything between you. You weren't trying to hold back anymore. You weren't trying to protect yourself from the things you used to worry about when it came to her.

You were just... doing them.

Without her.

And somehow, that was harder to look at than anything else.

The school week blurred by, uneventful in the way only heartbreak could make it feel. Tara saw you in the halls, heard your voice in classrooms and across the quad, watched you smile at other people like nothing had changed. You didn't seem tired. Or off. Or even slightly hungover. If anything, you looked more put-together than usual. You laughed at things. You raised your hand in class. You wore your headphones walking to third period like always.

Like nothing had happened at all.

Tara tried not to watch you, but she always did. Quietly. From across a table in the library, or down the hallway by the vending machines. Just enough to see you. Just enough to miss you all over again.

By Friday, she told herself she wouldn't look at any posts this time. It would only hurt. It was pointless. You weren't hers anymore, and she had no place watching your life from a distance.

But the updates found her anyway. Snapchat stories, tagged posts, the same faces that always flooded every party's digital trail—and then, yours. Again.

There wasn't even a slow build this time. No half-tipsy smiles or blurry, harmless clips of you clinking a soda can against someone else's. You were just there, already gone, already drunk. Same new people she didn't know, same crowded background noise. Your hair was different. You were laughing harder. Holding a red solo cup like it belonged in your hand.

And maybe it did now. Maybe this was just who you were without her.

Because it kept happening.

Weekend after weekend, like clockwork. A new party. A new batch of highlights, loops, snaps, clips, reels. Different outfits, different people, same energy. And you—always there. Always part of it.

It became a cycle, almost. Tara didn't go looking for it anymore, not really. But somehow, it still made its way to her screen. A tag from someone she followed. A repost. A conversation she overheard. The same party people posting the same kinds of videos—bass-heavy soundtracks, glittery filters, dancing in bathrooms and kitchens—and somewhere in the middle of it all, there you were. Sometimes in the background. Sometimes front and center.

And she hated how used to it she got.

At first, she'd freeze when she saw you. Fingers still on her screen, chest tightening like something sharp was pressing into her. But now... she didn't freeze. Not in the same way. Now she just stared. Sometimes for too long. Sometimes zooming in, pretending there was something to focus on besides the obvious. Your face. Your drink. Your eyes, glassy and shining under someone's flash.

The way you leaned too hard into people she didn't recognize. The way your laugh stretched too wide.

She hated how easily her thumb remembered where the zoom button was.

And then came the ones where it wasn't just drinks. A haze of smoke trailing up in a dim-lit room. A photo someone captioned with nothing but a leaf emoji and a smiley face. You were there, sitting low on a couch, someone's phone camera catching the second you passed a joint into someone else's hand. Tara stared at that one longer than she should've. There wasn't even anything particularly damning about it.

You weren't passed out. You weren't doing anything wild.

But still.

She remembered every time you used to frown at her for smoking when she got too far gone. The way you used to tug cigarettes or joints out of her fingers and roll your eyes and tell her, "You're gonna feel disgusting tomorrow."

Now she wondered if anyone said that to you. Or if they even cared.

The hardest part wasn't the videos. Not really. It was school. Monday through Friday. It was seeing you walk through the doors with perfect posture and clear eyes. It was watching you sit in class like nothing in your system was still dragging you down from the night before. No headaches. No missed assignments. No yawning through lectures.

Tara used to be the one who held it together best. Now she couldn't even hold eye contact.

And then one day, it came out at lunch.

She wasn't even paying attention at first, just picking at a half-eaten sandwich while Chad and Mindy argued about something stupid. Her mind was elsewhere—where it always was lately. But then Anika leaned in, laughing a little, eyes wide.

"Okay, wait, did you guys hear about Friday night?" she said, voice low but not low enough. "Apparently someone saw Y/N, like—blacked out. I don't know if it was tequila or what, but she was literally carried into someone's guest room."

Tara blinked. She looked up too fast. No one noticed.

It felt like her stomach folded in half.

Blacked out.

Carried.

She didn't ask questions—couldn't. She didn't trust her voice to come out right. But her chest wouldn't stop squeezing. She stared at her tray and didn't say a word, not while Mindy nervously laughed and worriedly said, "No way," not while Anika swore it was true and rattled off which party it was.

Not even when Chad nudged her and went, "Hey, you good?"

Because she wasn't.

Hearing it like that—casual, passed between bites of cafeteria food—it made her skin crawl. It made her ears ring. It wasn't the blacking out, even. She'd been there before. She knew what too much looked like. What being carried felt like.

But hearing it about you... from someone else?

That was new.

That was her thing. That used to be her. Getting too drunk. Getting carried. And you—you were the one who always knew when enough was enough. You were the one who used to pull her away from drinks, press your hand to the small of her back, walk her out before things got messy.

And now she was hearing stories about you.

It felt like a slap. Not just because you'd gone too far—but because it wasn't her you came home to after. It wasn't her you trusted with your head in a toilet bowl or your limbs limp and useless. It wasn't her you needed anymore.

Maybe you didn't want her around.

Maybe you were doing fine without her.

Maybe this was easier for you.

But Tara wasn't fine. None of it was easy. And every new post, every hallway glance, every quiet laugh across the cafeteria just made it clearer:

She'd ruined the only good thing she had.

And now she had to watch you become her... without her.

But it wasn't really you.

Not the you she knew. Not the you she used to wait for outside the library or tug into her side at parties. That version of you was always alert, always grounded in something. Even when you were tired or overwhelmed or annoyed with her—you were there.

Now, you looked like a shell.

It was subtle, at first. You still showed up. You still did your work. You still nodded when teachers asked questions and said "Hey" to friends in the hallway. But Tara could see it. From miles away, she could see it. The quiet behind your eyes. The way you stared at your phone too long between periods. The way your steps weren't light anymore—they were routine. Just part of the floor. Like you were following a path someone else had mapped out, not even bothering to look where it led.

Your smiles didn't reach anymore. They didn't curl at the edges or soften your eyes. You laughed sometimes, sure, but it was short-lived—cut off too quickly, like you were afraid of being too loud.

And your posture... God. Tara remembered how you used to carry yourself like you were always ready to speak up, even if you didn't. Now your shoulders sat lower. Like you were shrinking. Or maybe just tired of standing straight.

She noticed it every time you walked past her. Every shared class. Every time you sat in front of her, and she stared at the back of your head like it held answers she didn't have the courage to ask for.

And it hurt.

Because part of her had wanted to believe that you were better off. That letting you go had at least saved you from her. But it didn't feel like you were free. It felt like you were drifting. Lost.

And she missed you.

God, she missed your voice. Missed hearing you say anything at all that wasn't a deadpan "I don't know" when you got called on in class. Missed your sarcasm. Your weird little tangents. The way you used to whisper answers to her even when she didn't ask.

She thought about talking to you all the time.

Not just in the passing, wishful way—but in the real, gut-pulling, I have to say something kind of way. She'd almost done it, more than once. She'd gotten up, actually started walking toward you in the hallway, only to stop when she saw how closed off your expression was. Like you weren't open to anything. Not from her.

One time, she hesitated for too long—watched you gather your things in a quiet rush and accidentally walk out of English with the wrong book tucked under your arm. Math instead of Lit. She could've called out. Could've said something.

She didn't.

She just stood there, heart in her throat, fingers clenched around her desk.

You looked so tired.

She could see it in your eyes—red around the edges like you hadn't slept. Smudged makeup. Skin a little duller than usual, like your brightness was burning out from the inside. You weren't falling apart, not in any dramatic, public way. But you were... fading. Quietly.

And she hated herself for it.

Because she had done this. She'd driven you to the edge and left you there. She was watching you spiral from the outside now, helpless and paralyzed and ashamed.

And more than anything, she just wanted to go to you. Reach out. Fix it. Make it stop.

But she didn't know how to fix something she'd destroyed.

She didn't know how to talk to someone she'd broken.

And after what felt like weeks of noticing, watching, thinking, missing—after too many glances across crowded hallways, too many "almost" moments where she came so close to saying something—

Tara found out the same way everyone else did.

In the middle of lunch.

"Hey, did you guys hear Y/N got the publishing internship? That's so sick."

It was Chad's voice, half-distracted while he scrolled through something on his phone. Like it was nothing. Like it wasn't the most confusing thing she'd heard in weeks.

Tara blinked. "Wait, what?"

Maybe she said it too fast. Too loud.

Mindy glanced up. "Yeah. She got one of those senior prep placements. For English, I think? That place on Fifth? It's apparently hard to get into."

Tara didn't respond. She just sat there, blinking at her tray like it had answers hidden in the cracks of the plastic.

English.

You didn't even like English.

You liked movies.

You loved movies.

That was your thing. Always had been. It was what you two built your entire friendship on—what bled into whatever mess the two of you had become. It was every sleepover, every late night on her laptop, every ridiculous horror film marathon neither of you had the attention span for. It was what you talked about more than anything else. What you dreamed about when you thought no one was listening.

What you whispered about between kisses.

That was your future.

Tara knew that. She knew you.

So what the hell were you doing applying for an English internship?

And then she remembered.

Your parents.

They never liked the movie thing. They never took it seriously. Tara had heard them once, standing outside your room when you didn't realize she was still over—how they talked about stability, and careers, and being "practical."

How they said film was fine as a hobby.

How they said no one builds a real life off watching movies.

They always had the last word.

And you always let them.

Tara's stomach turned.

Because you hadn't just changed.

You'd given up.

And it wasn't just the alcohol or the parties or the way your smile didn't quite reach your eyes anymore—it was this.

This quiet, quiet thing.

This way of folding yourself in. Of giving in.

Of losing the part of yourself that still believed in anything.

She didn't even finish her lunch.

And then, later that day, she saw it again.

She was walking past the bulletin board outside the counselor's office—something she usually ignored—when your name caught her eye. Typed in bold beneath the words Student Internship Program – Spring Placements Confirmed. A list of names and positions. Some for hospitals. Some for banks.

And there you were.

Y/N L/N – Fifth Street Publishing, Editorial Intern.

She stopped in the middle of the hallway. Just stood there, surrounded by people who kept walking, like the world hadn't just tilted sideways.

It was real.

It was happening.

And you'd never even told her.

But maybe she didn't deserve to be told.

Because deep down, some part of her already knew why you'd said yes to something you didn't want. Why you were willing to settle for a path that didn't belong to you.

It was her.

Tara remembered every word she'd thrown at you that night—slurred and mean and sharp in all the places she'd never been with you before. The way she'd looked at you like she hated you. The way she'd said that you didn't know what you want, that you just followed her around, that you weren't going to become anything.

She could still hear it. Still see the way your face changed, that split-second where the light left your eyes, and you didn't even fight back.

She'd told you you had no future.

And now here you were, proving her right in the worst way possible. Not because it was true, but because maybe you believed it now. Maybe you'd started listening to all the people who told you not to dream too big. Maybe her voice was the loudest in your head.

Tara's chest tightened.

You'd let them choose for you. You'd let her words shape what you thought you deserved.

And somehow, this—this dull, careful future—felt like her fault too.

___

Tara had always hated Thursdays.

Something about them felt wrong. Sluggish. Not quite the end of the week, but far enough from the start that everything just felt tired. She never liked the classes stacked on those days, either—double bio and that pointless required seminar that felt more like a punishment than a credit.

But she hated this Thursday more than most.

She'd woken up twenty minutes too late, missed her usual coffee stop, and couldn't find her hoodie—the one she wore on every bad morning like armor. She'd barely gotten out the door before snapping at Sam for no reason. Her headphones weren't charged. The train smelled like piss. She'd spilled water down her jeans before second period.

And still, none of that was what made the day unbearable.

She only realized that when she turned the corner behind the north building.

It was just supposed to be a shortcut. She always took it when she was running late—it cut around the back parking lot and led straight to the side doors near the locker hall. She hadn't expected anyone to be there. Maybe some upperclassmen ditching again, or someone sneaking a vape before the bell.

But then she saw you.

At first, just a shape—half-obscured by the morning fog clinging to the side of the building, posture slouched, head tipped back against the bricks like you were trying to keep yourself from tipping over completely.

She stopped walking.

For a second, she didn't believe it was you.

You were alone. A hoodie too big on your shoulders, sleeves pulled over your hands. One boot untied. A crumpled plastic water bottle beside you on the ground. And in your fingers—held loose, like it barely mattered—a cigarette. Burning slow between soft knuckles.

Tara froze.

You didn't even see her. Or maybe you did. Maybe you had the whole time.

But you didn't flinch, didn't scramble to hide it, didn't give her even the courtesy of surprise.

You just looked at her. Not confused. Not startled. Just... distant. Detached. Like maybe she was someone you used to know, like maybe she meant nothing now.

And that was the part that gutted her.

Because you used to hate smoking.

You hated the smell. Said it made your clothes stink, your throat itch, your lungs ache. You used to joke that Tara was going to give herself cancer by twenty-five. You'd wave your hand dramatically in front of your face every time she lit one up, and steal her lighters just to "protect her." You hated it.

You hated watching her do it.

And now here you were, shoulders curled inward, lips parted around smoke, exhaling like it was the only thing keeping you together.

Tara didn't know what to do.

Her chest ached—quiet at first, then harder. Like someone had placed a heavy stone right in the center and left it there to settle. She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Her feet were glued to the ground and she was staring, and you were staring back, and everything about it felt wrong.

You didn't look angry. You didn't look guilty.

You just looked tired.

Tired in a way that scared her.

Your eyes were glassy, a little unfocused. Dark rings pressed beneath them like bruises. You didn't look like someone skipping class for the thrill of it, or someone high for the sake of rebellion. You looked like someone who didn't care anymore.

And maybe that was the worst part.

You used to care about everything.

Now you just stood there, barely moving, smoke slipping past your lips in slow, tired clouds. The kind of quiet that didn't feel peaceful—just empty.

You saw her. She knew you saw her.

And still, nothing changed.

Not your expression. Not the slope of your shoulders. Not the way you held the joint like it wasn't worth the effort to hide.

You looked at her—but not really. Like she was a window and not a person.

And Tara just... stood there.

Her throat felt tight, dry. Her palms too warm.

She looked around, heart thudding, realizing slowly and sharply that there was no one else there. Just you. Just her. Just the silence.

This was it.

She'd been thinking about this for weeks.

When she could talk to you. How. What she'd say. If it'd be in one of the classes you still shared. If she'd catch you at your locker, or maybe after school when you always left five minutes early now. She'd imagined a dozen versions of it—how she could ask how you were, if you were okay, if maybe you still had room for her somewhere under all the distance she'd shoved between you.

She'd almost done it before. Twice. Once in the hallway outside chem, when she saw you walk in with the wrong book tucked against your chest. Another time in the cafeteria, when you sat with Mindy and didn't look up once. She'd taken actual steps toward you. Felt her mouth open and close again. Chickened out before she even crossed the room.

But now...

Now there was no crowd. No audience. No excuse.

Just a gray, cold corner of the building. Just your tired eyes.

She inhaled—shallow, nervous. Gave the smallest, awkward smile. It felt too hopeful on her face. Too soft. Like it didn't belong in this version of the world.

Still, she tried.

"Hey," she said.

The word cracked slightly on its way out. She could hear her own voice and hated how small it sounded.

You didn't answer right away. You let the smoke drift again. Your fingers curled tighter around the cigarette—just enough to steady them.

Then you turned your head.

Not fully. Just a little. Like you were acknowledging something without inviting it in.

"Hello."

Quiet. Hoarse.

Your voice was lower than she remembered. Not in sound, just in weight—like it was coming from far away.

You didn't smile. You didn't frown. You didn't meet her eyes.

And that somehow hurt more than anything.

You were right there. Close enough to touch. To smell the smoke and the cheap detergent on your hoodie. But you wouldn't look at her.

Tara shifted her weight—awkward, uncertain. She leaned her back against the brick wall beside you, trying not to stare, trying to ignore how much of you she didn't recognize anymore.

You had red waterlines in your eyes. Like you hadn't slept. Or had cried. Or both.

She swallowed hard, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets to keep from fidgeting.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this.

She didn't know what she'd expected—maybe something softer. Something familiar. Something like the old you, the one who used to grin when she showed up late to class and mouth you owe me a coffee from two rows over.

But this wasn't that.

This wasn't soft.

This wasn't you.

And it was her fault.

Tara looked at you again. Your cheekbone was sharp in the morning light. Your jaw tense, flickering like you were biting back a thought you didn't care enough to say out loud.

She wanted to say something else. Ask something. Anything. But she couldn't remember how to talk to you anymore.

Couldn't remember if she was allowed.

So she just stood there, swallowing past the tightness in her throat, pretending the bricks digging into her back didn't feel like punishment.

Then, quietly—dryly—she said, "Didn't know you smoked."

It came out flat. Not judgmental. Not curious. Just true. A tired truth.

You didn't look at her. Not really. Just shifted your weight slightly against the wall. Brought the joint to your lips again, then paused, like the sentence was too dull to deserve a reaction.

You shrugged. "I didn't."

Then you took a drag.

Exhaled slowly. The kind of exhale that felt more like a habit than a relief.

And she couldn't help it. Couldn't stop herself. The words came out before she could filter them into something less obvious.

"How are you holding up?"

It felt hollow the second it landed.

Because she knew.

She'd seen the answer already.

In the way your old posts disappeared.

In the blurry party pictures Mindy had once accidentally shown her on a story.

In the hallway, where your eyes always looked somewhere else, like you were already halfway gone.

In the way you never spoke unless called on. In the way your shoulders never seemed to relax.

You let out a sound. Small. Dry. Almost like a laugh, if it hadn't sounded so sharp.

"Fine," you said. Voice rough. Edges blunt. "You?"

She blinked.

Caught off guard by how quiet you were. How empty it sounded.

"Uh..." She hesitated. "I'm well."

The words didn't sound right coming out of her mouth.

They sounded like a lie. Or worse—like something an adult would say in the middle of a job interview.

You finally turned your head slightly toward her again. Your eyes still didn't meet hers, but she could see them better now. Could see how tired they looked. How tired you looked.

It hit her in a new way—how much she'd missed. How much she hadn't let herself see until it was too late.

You dragged the cigarette between your fingers again. Slowly. Like you were trying to make it last longer just so you wouldn't have to move.

And Tara... just stood there.

Hating the silence.

Hating herself.

Wishing you'd say more.

Wishing she knew how to make you.

So she grasped at the only thing she could think of.

"Congrats," she said, quietly. Her voice was thin, like she was afraid it might break if she tried to sound more certain. "By the way. For, um... the internship."

She risked a glance at you.

You didn't look surprised. You didn't look anything.

"I saw the list," she added, softer.

There was something stiff about her posture now, like saying it out loud made her aware of every inch of space between you. But she meant it. She meant all of it. Even if it sounded like nothing.

Because she had wanted you to get something good. Even after everything—after all the things she'd said, the things she hadn't said—she still wanted you to succeed.

She knew you could. You always could.

She just hadn't made that clear.

Quite the opposite, actually.

You exhaled smoke, slow and careless, before answering.

"Yeah," you said. Then after a pause, added, "Didn't really ask for it."

Your tone wasn't bitter. Just... matter-of-fact.

You flicked ash off the end of the joint, watching it fall. Your fingers were trembling slightly—just barely—but steady enough to keep holding on.

"They thought it'd be good for college apps," you went on. "Looks clean on paper. Reads like ambition."

You didn't smile.

"And I'm good at pretending."

Tara's heart sank.

Not because she hadn't already suspected it. But because it sounded like you didn't even care that she knew now. Like it didn't matter anymore—if she saw it, if she didn't.

You weren't hiding it.

You weren't hiding any of it.

And it hurt more than she could say.

She shifted her foot against the ground, scraping the toe of her shoe along the concrete without thinking. She wanted to say something back—something that would mean more. But her throat felt tight again.

You were still leaning there, distant and quiet and so far from the girl she used to talk to until 2am about directors, indie films, dumb slashers you both claimed to hate but secretly loved.

The same girl who once told her she didn't want a life that looked good on paper—just one that felt good to wake up to.

Now here you were. Holding someone else's idea of your future. And smoking through it.

Tara felt like she might be sick.

But she stayed quiet.

You didn't want her comfort.

And she didn't know how to give it without breaking.

Tara shifted again, her shoulder brushing the wall beside yours.

"I—" she started, then stopped. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth, her mouth too small for the words. She swallowed. Tried again.

"I just... I wanted to say I'm sorry."

It came out soft. Awkward. She didn't look at you when she said it.

She didn't know if she could.

Your eyes stayed forward, pinned somewhere across the parking lot, unfocused but alert in that strange, quiet way people got when they were waiting for something they didn't believe would happen.

"It's fine," you said.

Not cold. Just automatic. Like you'd practiced it. Like it had been said too many times already—It's fine. It's fine. It's fine. Until it meant nothing.

Tara's jaw tensed.

"It's not," she said, quieter now. "I know it's not."

You didn't respond. Not right away. Just took another drag, letting the smoke pool at the corner of your lips before exhaling slowly, like the whole thing bored you.

And then you chuckled. Dry. Not real. Not you.

"I should actually thank you," you said, still not looking at her. "I mean, who needs confidence anyway?"

It wasn't loud. It wasn't even particularly mean. But it landed harder than if you'd screamed at her.

Because it was the kind of thing someone says when they've been sitting with a bruise for too long—when they've learned to stop touching it, stop flinching.

Tara's breath hitched.

The guilt hit harder than it ever had. Not just guilt for what she'd said that night—though God, that alone was enough to drown in—but for what it had done to you. For what it had made you carry.

She'd changed you.

"I—"

"I have to go," you cut in. Not harsh, just flat. Final.

Then, a pause. "English. Gotta show up for the future that's apparently waiting for me."

You turned your head toward her at last. Your eyes finally met hers—and God, there was something in them that gutted her. Not anger. Not sadness. Just that emptiness.

Like you'd stopped expecting anything else from her.

You pushed yourself off the wall, the movement smooth but weighted, like your body was full of bricks. Your cigarette dropped from your fingers, still burning faintly as it hit the concrete.

You crushed it under your boot.

Didn't say another word.

Didn't give Tara the chance to say anything else either.

You just walked, slow and steady, like the conversation hadn't taken a chunk out of you. Like the cigarette had never been in your hand.

Leaving Tara standing against the wall alone.

The air still smelled like smoke. It clung to her sleeves, her hair, her skin. She could still taste it in the back of her throat—burnt and bitter, like everything she hadn't said.

The silence around her was loud. Too loud.

You were gone. And she was still standing there like an idiot, staring at the space where you'd been, like maybe you'd change your mind and come back. Like maybe this time she'd know what to say.

But you didn't.

And she wouldn't.

Maybe this was how it was always meant to be.

Maybe this was what she'd earned.

You had loved her—fully, stupidly, bravely. You'd held her hand when no one else did, stayed when she gave you every reason to leave, forgave her for things she wouldn't forgive herself for. You were the best thing that had ever happened to her, and she had torn it to shreds because she didn't know how to be loved without ruining it.

Because she didn't know how to stop destroying things that made her feel.

And maybe that was it.

Maybe this was her punishment.

To watch you disappear. To have had something real, and to know she'd wrecked it.

Friends asked questions. Friends crossed lines. Friends got hurt.

Sam had tried once, maybe twice, to let someone get close. But people always wanted more than she could give, and when she failed to meet their expectations — when she wasn't open enough or warm enough — they left. Or judged. Or flinched the second her last name came up in conversation.

So she stopped trying. It was easier that way. Keep it small. Tara, Mindy, Chad — even that felt like too much, sometimes.

She didn't like when new people showed up, either. Especially the ones who wormed their way into Tara's life — the ones who made her laugh in a way Sam hadn't heard in months, who knew what she was studying, what she was struggling with, who called her smart and meant it.

Tara had always let people in easier than Sam did. Even as a kid, her little sister never needed convincing — she just trusted people, let them get close, believed that kindness meant safety. But after Woodsboro, after everything they'd survived, that kind of trust wasn't a strength. Not anymore.

Sam had tried to teach her that. Tried to set rules, boundaries, warnings. But Tara never really followed Sam's rules — not when they were kids, and definitely not now. Not when she was older, smarter, and convinced she could handle herself.

People like that didn't show up without wanting something. And Sam had gotten very good at spotting what people wanted.

Which was why her stomach had twisted the second Tara mentioned that one of her professors had recommended a tutoring option after Tara bombed a test she swore she had studied for.

Sam hadn't liked the sound of that. Not the vagueness, not the fact that this mysterious "help" came in the form of a single person, and definitely not that the sessions were happening weekly, sometimes twice a week, in offices or on quiet corners of campus. If Sam had to imagine the perfect setup for someone trying to get close to her sister — trying to study her, learn her schedule, her trust patterns — this was it.

It was the dream Ghostface scenario.

But Tara hadn't seen the danger. She'd barely even humored Sam's warnings. All she cared about was passing the class.

"I'm sorry," she'd snapped one night, exasperated, "so you'd rather I fail psych just to avoid anyone who isn't already on your vetted list?"

And the worst part? She had a point. Because even though Sam hated the situation, she also knew Tara couldn't afford to fall behind. The last few months had already been hell enough. She didn't want her sister to drown in school stress on top of everything else.

So she'd bitten her tongue. Let the tutoring sessions happen. Let this person — this professor — circle closer and closer around the one person Sam couldn't afford to lose.

But she was watching. And the second something felt wrong, she would step in.

She tried not to be dramatic about it. That was the promise she'd made to herself when Tara first mentioned the tutoring thing. Just be calm. Be rational. Reasonable.

It was only one session. The first one. That meant there was still time to shift the plan, make it safer, more controlled. Time to keep things from going sideways before they even started.

She brought it up the morning Tara was supposed to meet you. While Tara was shuffling around the kitchen — still in pajama pants, hair tied messily back, sleep heavy under her eyes as she half-blindly prepared the coffee. Sam stayed seated at the table, pretending to scroll through her phone. Waiting for the right moment. Keeping her tone easy.

"I could come with you," she said finally, watching as Tara dumped spoonfuls of grounds into the machine. "Not for the whole time. Just to check things out. You said it's in the library, right? I could sit a table away. Pretend I'm studying or something."

Tara didn't even glance at her. "No."

Sam blinked. "Just no?"

"I don't need a babysitter," Tara muttered, reaching for the milk as she moved to pour cereal into a chipped bowl. "Tutoring's already bad enough. Do you want me to wear a giant I'm failing sign too?"

Sam had tried not to bristle. She really had. But that stung more than she expected it to.

It wasn't that she thought Tara was weak, or dumb, or incapable. If anything, she was proud of her for being willing to get help. But that didn't mean Sam had to trust the person giving it. Especially not someone she'd never met. Especially not in this city, after everything they'd been through. You didn't just let strangers get that close — not anymore.

So she tried again.

"You could have her come here," she said, keeping her voice measured. "Just this once, maybe. You know... do the session in the apartment. That way you're comfortable, it's a familiar place, I'm around—"

"I said no," Tara cut in sharply, this time turning to look at her. "That would be weird. I don't want some random girl I've never met walking into our apartment just because you're being weird about this."

Sam opened her mouth, then shut it again. Random girl. She hated the way Tara said it like that — like it was nothing. Like being careful was something to roll her eyes at.

Sam blinked, her temper flaring. "Random? I thought you said you knew who she was."

Tara rolled her eyes. "I do."

"But you've never met her?"

"I've heard about her," Tara argued, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. "Other students know her — she tutors, like, half the psych department. And Professor Perry said she's smart as hell and actually gets the material. That's more than enough."

Sam let out a humorless laugh. "So now word-of-mouth and one professor's opinion make someone safe?"

Tara didn't answer. She just looked at her — annoyed, a little tired. Like she'd already had this argument in her head a dozen times and nothing Sam could say would change her mind.

Sam exhaled slowly through her nose, still watching Tara move around the kitchen. "How old is she again?"

Tara didn't look up, turning towards the fridge instead. "I don't know. Twenty? Twenty-two, maybe"

"Right," Sam said. "So she's, what, a couple years older than you? And she's just... made a career out of tutoring undergrads?"

Tara let out a dry laugh as she pulled out the carton of milk and shut the fridge with her hip, "Jesus, Sam."

"I'm just saying it's weird," Sam pressed. "She's not a TA. She's not on payroll. But she's spending her time helping psych majors for free?"

"For free?" Tara turned then, eyebrows raised. "Who said anything about for free?"

Sam blinked. "You're paying her?"

"Of course I'm paying her. What, did you think she was just doing it out of the goodness of her heart?"

Sam didn't answer.

Tara shook her head, her voice sharpening. "I'm trying to pass this class, Sam. I don't need some guilt-tripped pity sessions. I need actual help."

"And you think she's the answer?"

"She gets it. Professor Perry literally said she's one of the best students she's ever had — and that if anyone could explain the material, it'd be her."

Sam's jaw clenched. "Right. The twenty-year-old genius who just happens to be available and interested in helping you."

Tara turned away again, putting a cup down on the counter hard enough to make a point. "You'd rather I fail?"

"That's not what I—"

"Look, Sam," Tara cut in, finally turning around fully. Her coffee steamed in her hand, her expression sharp. "I'm going to this session. You don't have to like it. You don't have to approve. But I'm going."

Sam stared at her, lips parting slightly, like maybe she still had something to say. But Tara didn't wait.

She turned and left the kitchen, footsteps heavy against the floor, retreating to her room without another word. The door didn't slam — Tara wasn't like that — but the quiet click of it shutting still felt final.

She didn't speak to Sam for the rest of the morning. Didn't come out for breakfast, didn't offer a goodbye. When Sam heard the front door open a little after eight, she didn't even get a glance on the way out. Just the sound of keys, the rustle of a backpack strap, and the dull thud of the door closing behind her.

So that was how Sam's day began — and how it stayed. Eight hours behind the counter at the café, apron on, dish towel in hand, wiping down tables that never seemed clean enough. Her mind wasn't there, not really. Not in the espresso shots or the lukewarm tip jar or the regular who always asked for too much syrup.

It was with Tara. With you.

Somewhere in that crowded library, probably at one of the back tables where no one really looked twice. You'd be sitting together, talking. You'd be asking her questions, and Tara would be answering them. Laughing, maybe. Smiling.

Sam hated how much it bothered her — hated the way her stomach turned every time she pictured it. Because it shouldn't have been a big deal. It was just one session. One hour. Nothing.

But it didn't feel like nothing.

It felt like letting her sister walk straight into something she couldn't see — and being told not to get in the way.

After that, it just... continued.

One session turned into two. Two turned into a weekly thing. And soon it wasn't just tutoring anymore — not the way Tara talked about it.

She'd come home with that buzz in her voice, the kind she used when she liked something but didn't want to admit how much. When she'd drop your name into stories about her day like it wasn't anything — like you were just there. Like a given.

"You'd think this class would make more sense," she'd mutter, flipping through a highlighted packet on the couch. "But even she said the material's kind of trash. So, y'know, not just me."

She. Not the tutor. Not some girl from the psych department. Just you now — casual, assumed, familiar.

Sam hated how familiar it sounded.

She tried to be normal about it. She really did. She'd ask how the sessions went, nod along when Tara talked about how smart you were, how patient. How you made things make sense in a way her professor didn't. Sometimes, Tara would laugh and say you reminded her of someone — some dork from high school or a character from a show she liked. Sam would pretend to laugh, too.

But she didn't like it. Any of it.

Sometimes, she managed to keep her mouth shut. She'd just hum and change the subject or excuse herself to go do dishes that didn't need doing. But sometimes the words slipped out anyway.

"Just... don't get too close," she'd said once, barely loud enough to count. Tara had looked up from the couch with a frown.

"What does that mean?"

Sam hadn't answered. She just waved it off. Something about boundaries. About how tutoring was tutoring, and maybe it should stay that way.

But Tara didn't listen. She never really had.

"She's not a serial killer," she said once, dryly, when Sam had brought it up again. "She's literally a TA. You're acting like I'm going on tutoring dates with Ghostface."

Sam hadn't even dignified that one with a response. Just stared at the wall, jaw tight.

Because it wasn't just about danger. It wasn't just about keeping Tara safe. It was about the way things shifted. The way your name came up more and more often, the way Tara spoke about you like she already trusted you.

And Sam knew her sister. Knew how she let people in too easily. Knew how she looked for softness in places that didn't always deserve it.

And she knew — even if she couldn't prove it yet — that something about this wasn't right.

Still, she kept her mouth shut. For a few days, at least. Let Tara have her little victories. Let her pretend this was just school and help and nothing else.

But when another Friday came around — the end of Tara's second full week of sessions — Sam offered to pick her up. Said she'd be in the area anyway. Didn't mention that she'd gotten off work early, or that she'd planned it that way.

The campus was mostly cleared out by then. Late afternoon, sun starting to dip, the building quiet except for the dull hum of vending machines and the occasional echo of footsteps down the hall. Sam found the classroom easily — tucked near the end, just like Tara had texted — and leaned against the wall outside.

The door was open an inch.

Inside, she heard voices. Her sister's — light, relaxed, full of something warm. Then yours, steady and calm, with this almost annoying gentleness in it. Not flirty. Not even particularly enthusiastic.

Just familiar.

Sam didn't move. Not yet. Her hand hovered near the door, but her eyes caught the angle between the wood and the frame. She looked.

Tara sat at one of the desks, papers scattered in front of her, pen twirling between her fingers as she laughed at something. Across from her was you. You were relaxed, leaned back just slightly in your chair, speaking with your hands as you explained something she clearly didn't get the first time — but you weren't annoyed about it. You weren't even trying hard.

It just looked easy.

Like you'd done this before. Like you knew her. Like the two of you knew each other.

Sam's jaw clenched.

She didn't know what she expected — maybe boredom, maybe formality, maybe even tension. But not this. Not Tara smiling like that, not you smiling back. Not the air in the room feeling warm in that settled way. She couldn't hear everything, but she didn't need to.

It was the way Tara kept looking at you. The way you kept looking back.

Too comfortable. Too fast.

You were sitting on the other side of the desk, one ankle tucked over the other, posture relaxed in a way that didn't scream "teacher" but didn't cross into casual either. You wore a dark long-sleeve, something fitted but simple, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms. Your hair was a little messy, but not in the careless way — in the intentional way. Like you didn't care, but still managed to look too put-together.

Not flashy. Not even particularly intimidating. Just... cool. And older.

Mid-twenties, maybe. Comfortable in your skin. And it showed — in the way you tilted your head when Tara said something dumb, or how your smile curved at the edge like you were holding in a laugh.

There was nothing overtly inappropriate about the scene. No lingering looks, no touching, no boundary crossed.

But Sam didn't like the way Tara kept leaning in a little. Or how you mirrored it — subtle, automatic, like you were just used to the rhythm of talking to her.

She could already hear Tara's voice in her head: "It's not like that."

It didn't matter.

She hated the way you looked at her sister. Even worse, she hated how comfortable you were with it — like this was routine. Like you'd both gotten used to each other way too quickly.

Her hand curled into a loose fist at her side, and just as she was about to push the door fully open, you glanced up and noticed her.

You looked straight at her. No startled double-take. No awkward scramble. Just a blink — slow and even — before you stood.

You were tall. Not taller than Sam, but tall enough that it was the first thing she noticed. The second was your expression: polite, faintly warm, like you'd been expecting someone eventually. You offered her a hand, voice smooth and professional.

"Hi," you said, smiling just enough to show it was real. "You must be Sam. I'm—"

She didn't take it.

"I'm just here to pick up my sister."

The words weren't rude, exactly. Just... cold. Dry. Dropped like a pin in the middle of what had been an easy, flowing moment.

There was a short silence after that — not awkward, but definitely clipped. A shift. Like someone had hit pause and turned the temperature down.

You didn't flinch. You just let your hand fall naturally back to your side, the smile on your face slipping into something more neutral. Not offended. Not even surprised. Just... reset.

"Of course," you said simply, still holding eye contact for a beat longer than necessary. "Tara's made real progress."

That was when Sam felt it.

The tone of it. The quiet confidence. The way you said her sister's name like it wasn't borrowed — like it belonged to you too. Like you'd earned the right to say it that way.

Sam hated it.

She hated how you said it. Like you were proud of her. Like you had any idea who she really was.

Not because it was flirtatious — it wasn't. Not even close. But it was familiar. Warm. Like you knew her. Like you were proud of her. Like you saw something in Tara that maybe even Sam hadn't been able to get her to show lately.

She didn't say anything. Just stared at you with that same cool expression, shoulders square, hands in the pockets of her coat. Still holding her ground in the doorway like she had every right to stand there, to interrupt, to judge.

Tara stood behind you, finally rising from her seat and brushing a hand over the top of her backpack. The sound of the zipper gave the moment somewhere to land.

"Hey," she said, turning toward the door. Her voice was lighter than usual. Easy. "You're early."

"Traffic was light."

Sam's eyes flicked to her sister now — finally. Tara was still in the same shirt and jeans she'd left the apartment in that morning, hair pulled up into a messy knot that somehow still worked. She looked relaxed. At ease. Like she wanted to be here.

Like she wasn't in a rush to leave.

You didn't say anything else, just smiled again — smaller this time, polite, purely professional — and turned back to your things. Your hair fell in front of your cheek as you bent slightly over your notebook. Neat handwriting. A few color-coded tabs poking out from the corners.

Sam watched all of it.

You were older than Tara, that much was clear. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Something about you was put-together in a way college students weren't usually — like you actually slept, actually planned. You wore a soft sweater tucked slightly into black jeans, the kind of look that seemed effortless but wasn't. Your jewelry was minimal — just one small ring and a pair of earrings. Gold. Clean.

Everything about you was... neutral. Soft. Harmless.

Sam didn't believe that for a second.

Tara slung her bag over one shoulder as she reached for her phone. "Same time Monday?"

"Yeah," you replied, glancing up at her with a small nod. "Unless you need to move it."

"No, Monday's good."

You told her to have a good weekend. Then you glanced at Sam again and added, with simple sincerity, "Take care."

And then you walked out — calm, unbothered, collected. Like you didn't feel the strange charge still hanging in the air. Or maybe you just didn't care.

The moment the hallway swallowed your footsteps, Tara turned to her sister.

She shot her a look — one that could've cut glass. Short, sharp, annoyed.

"She was being nice," Tara muttered under her breath. "You could've just said hi."

Sam didn't answer at first. Just crossed her arms, jaw tight.

"She's friendly," she said finally, voice flat.

"She's not a stranger," Tara snapped back.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "She's still new."

"She's literally my professor," Tara said, brushing past her on the way to the door. "And she's helped me more than anyone else."

Sam stood there for a second, catching the door with her hand before it could swing shut behind Tara. She followed, a step behind, her mouth set in a hard line.

It wasn't jealousy.

But something in her felt off-kilter. Like she'd just lost a round in a game she didn't agree to play. Like she'd watched someone else pull Tara further out of reach — and hadn't even been given a chance to stop it.

The car ride home was quiet at first. Just the low hum of the engine and the occasional sound of Tara shifting in her seat, tapping her nails against her phone screen as she texted someone — probably you.

Then she started talking.

Not about anything major. Just bits and pieces from the session. The chapter she finally understood. The way you explained something using examples no one else had thought to use. How it just clicked. How smart you were. How easy you made it feel.

Sam stared ahead at the road, hands locked at ten and two, the muscle in her jaw twitching.

Tara didn't notice. Or maybe she did and didn't care.

"She said something today about cognitive frameworks," Tara added, adjusting the volume of her own voice like she didn't even realize she was smiling. "The way she broke it down — like, actually made sense. It's kind of insane how good she is at this."

Sam didn't respond.

She just tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

Tara knew better. Knew not to trust people so quickly. Not to let them too close, too fast.

And yet here she was — windows down, backpack half-zipped, talking about some twenty-something tutor like she'd known her for years.

Sam felt it again. That quiet, gnawing sense of something slipping just beyond her reach.

And this time, it wasn't going away.

The sessions didn't go away after that day either — if anything, they started happening more often. What began as scheduled weekly meetings turned into casual text exchanges, late-night reschedules, extra time added "just to review a few things." Tara talked about you more often, too — not in any way that would normally matter. Just in passing. Offhanded mentions of things you'd said, concepts you'd helped her understand, the books you recommended that she "actually kind of wanted to read."

At first, Sam told herself it wasn't that deep.

But over the next few weeks, it started to feel deeper.

You were always around. Or if you weren't, it felt like you had just been. Tara would leave the apartment with her hair barely dry from the shower, always rushing, always saying she didn't want to be late — not for class, but for you. She started staying later after school, coming home in better moods, more talkative. More sure of herself in the way she explained her ideas.

It wasn't that Sam didn't want her to be doing better. That wasn't it.

But something about it rubbed against every protective instinct she had.

Because it wasn't just about the studying anymore. Sam could hear it in the way Tara spoke — more relaxed, more familiar. There was this warmth in her voice, one she rarely let slip for anyone else.

You were no longer just her professor. You were becoming a part of her life. Softly, gradually, without Sam's permission.

She noticed it everywhere. In the extra coffee mugs on the counter sometimes — one of them not theirs. In the new books stacked on Tara's desk, all borrowed. In the small, thoughtful things: a sticky note Tara had saved with reminders in your handwriting. The way she mentioned something "you'd" said about learning styles or memorization techniques, like you were a mutual friend they both had.

And then there was that afternoon.

Sam came home early, the front door still halfway unlocked. She had just stepped into the apartment when she heard it — the low sound of laughter coming from outside. She walked to the window just in time to see Tara shutting the passenger door of your car, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, smiling at something you'd said through the window. She lingered. So did you.

Nothing inappropriate. Nothing obvious.

But Sam felt it anyway — the way you both fit into that moment like it had been practiced a dozen times before.

When Tara came inside, Sam didn't say anything right away. Just gave her a quick look and went back to wiping down the kitchen counter, as if it hadn't meant anything.

But later that evening, when she passed Tara's room and saw her curled up on her bed with a textbook open — the corner of a napkin used as a bookmark, with your handwriting on it again — she couldn't help herself.

"She drives you home now?" Sam asked, leaning in the doorway.

Tara didn't even look up. "Sometimes. If we finish late."

Sam nodded slowly, arms crossed. "That's nice of her."

Tara finally glanced over. "Why do you sound like that?"

"Like what?”

"You know what."

Sam just gave a faint shrug and said nothing.

From that point on, her interactions with you became clipped. Cool. The kind of polite that almost bordered on passive-aggressive. Never outright rude — never something anyone could really call her on. But enough.

A slightly too-long pause before answering your greetings. A dry "huh" when you offered a compliment about Tara's progress. A subtle edge to her voice anytime your name came up.

She didn't trust you. She didn't like that she couldn't explain why.

And worst of all — she didn't like how much Tara seemed to.

You weren't around often, not directly. Tutors weren't supposed to linger, and Sam figured you knew that. But still — you existed. Within earshot, within reach, inside her sister's life in a way Sam hadn't agreed to. And somehow, you were still always there.

A name in passing. A quiet chuckle when Tara remembered something you said. A phone vibration Tara answered a little too quickly.

It got under Sam's skin more than she'd admit.

She didn't know how to place you, and that bothered her. You were kind, but never too familiar. Professional, but not stiff. And worst of all, you never gave her a real reason to be mad at you. You never overstepped — not obviously. Not directly. But there was something about you she couldn't shake, something that made her feel like she was being quietly replaced.

Whenever you and Sam crossed paths, the tension lived in the smallest details.

You'd greet her, polite, neutral — "Hi, Sam" — and she'd nod once without looking up from whatever she was pretending to do.

You'd say something encouraging about Tara's work, and she'd mutter, "She's always been capable."

You'd offer a small joke once, lightly, while Tara was laughing beside you — and Sam's smile wouldn't even reach her eyes.

None of it was loud. But it stung, even if no one else seemed to notice.

What made it worse was how Tara started talking about you like you were something more. Not just her professor. Not just a tutor. But a person. Someone funny. Someone helpful. Someone she liked.

It wasn't romantic — Sam could admit that. She wasn't being irrational.

But it was something else. Something worse.

It sounded like Tara considered you a friend.

That part burned. Because Sam knew what that meant. Tara didn't let people in like that — not often, and definitely not gently. But she let you in, and Sam didn't know what that said about you, or worse, about her.

She tried not to care. She really did. There were a thousand ways to reason herself out of it. But every time she heard your name from Tara's mouth, something in her bristled.

She wanted to push you out — cut the cord, find some polite excuse to stop the sessions, make Tara study with her instead.

But she already knew how that would go.

They'd tried before. It ended with slammed doors and Tara storming off, her voice sharp with irritation. "You're not helping," she'd snapped once, back when Sam tried to reteach her freshman psych notes. "You're just making me hate this."

And then you had entered the picture.

And Sam had stayed out of it. At least on the surface.

But the thing that really got to her — the moment that kept replaying in the back of her mind — was the time Tara had invited you over.

It had happened weeks ago, maybe longer, but Sam still thought about it.

Tara had done it without telling her. Said it was because she focused better at home. Said she'd clean the place herself. Said Sam would be at the café all afternoon, anyway.

You had tried to decline, as far as Sam could tell. You'd said you preferred public or campus spaces. But somehow, Tara had worn you down — and for a few hours, you'd been sitting in their living room, with your notes spread out across the coffee table and Tara's knee bouncing as she scribbled down whatever you were saying.

Sam didn't even find out until later — days later, when she noticed a notecard with your handwriting stuck inside one of Tara's textbooks and asked where it came from.

"Oh," Tara had said, way too casually. "That was from when she came here. I needed help before the midterm. You were at work."

Just like that. Not a big deal. Nothing to be defensive about.

But Sam had flipped. Not in front of Tara — not fully — but enough. Her jaw tightened. Her voice dropped an octave.

"You let her come here?"

Tara rolled her eyes. "I didn't let her. I asked her. And it's not like I let her into my room or anything."

"You didn't think to tell me?"

"I didn't think you'd care."

That part stung most of all.

Because of course Sam cared. Because this was her space. Her sister. And it felt like you'd stepped into it — not forcefully, not arrogantly, but comfortably. Like you belonged.

And Sam wasn't sure if that said something about you.

Or something about how far she'd already been pushed out.

But more than that — more than the invisible lines you seemed to cross without hesitation — it was the certainty that got to her. The comfort. The trust.

Because Sam didn't trust anyone.

Not really. Not anymore.

Not after everything they'd survived. Not after what people turned out to be. After how easily someone could smile at you — offer help, offer kindness — only to drive a knife through your spine the second you let your guard down.

She had learned that lesson the hardest way possible. And it was burned into her now, bone-deep.

So when she saw Tara relaxing around you — smiling without effort, leaning in to listen, opening herself up — something in Sam twitched. Alarm bells, sirens, something.

You were new. Polite. Well-spoken. Friendly. All the things Amber had been, too.

That was the worst part.

You didn't seem dangerous. You didn't act suspicious. And that made Sam trust you even less.

Because the ones who meant it — the ones who planned it — never did.

So no, she didn't think you were just some harmless academic. She didn't care how many degrees you had, or how patient you were with Tara's questions, or how helpful your notes might've been. She cared about why. Why you were here. Why you'd agreed to help in the first place. Why you were still sticking around even now.

And whether or not you were waiting for the moment Tara finally let her guard down just enough.

She couldn't prove it — not yet. But Sam had learned how to live with that kind of doubt. She carried it everywhere now. Like instinct. Like armor.

And even if she was wrong about you — even if you were just... you — that didn't stop the fear from crawling up her spine every time she saw Tara laugh in your direction.

Because Sam didn't just worry about losing her sister.

She worried about watching it happen. One slow, trusting step at a time.

And that was why Sam felt this deep, burning rage every time she saw you.

Because she knew. Or at least, she thought she did.

She knew what this was. The slow disarming. The calculated softness. The ease with which you'd slipped into Tara's world. The careful way you stayed polite, professional — likable — while making yourself impossible to ignore.

She saw it coming.

She felt it in her gut, the way she used to before a knife came down — the heavy, sick pulse of something about to snap.

You were going to hurt Tara. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But it was coming. Sam could feel it.

And yet... she wasn't sure. Not completely.

Because what if you weren't like the others? What if you were just some regular person — kind, patient, weirdly generous with your time? What if you were actually helping?

She couldn't exactly pull you aside, corner you in some hallway and accuse you of plotting murder. Not without proof. Not without risking Tara looking at her like she was crazy again.

So instead, Sam just stood there. Watching. Seething. Caught between her instincts and her doubt.

Because no one was that soft for no reason. No one stuck around that long — gave that much — without wanting something.

No one looked at Tara the way you did unless they meant something by it.

And Sam didn't know what it was yet.

But she was going to find out.

Because that was what Sam did. She knew how to spot danger — she had to. Her whole body lived in it, breathed in it, woke up every morning already braced for whatever was coming. It was survival now, the way her shoulders never quite relaxed and her jaw never fully unclenched.

And still, somehow, all that tension had to go somewhere.

She wasn't stupid — she knew she walked through life with a fuse already half-burned. Most days, it just sat there, simmering under the surface. But on bad days — really bad days — it felt like the whole world was just waiting to strike the match.

And today had been hell.

The espresso machine broke down mid-rush. The new girl on register kept messing up orders and blaming Sam when customers got pissed. Some guy knocked over a tray of drinks and left without apologizing. And worst of all, her manager — who always pretended she was "just trying to help" — hovered the whole time, correcting Sam like she'd never worked a food service job in her life.

By the time she clocked out, her shirt was soaked with milk, her shoes were sticky, and her hands stung from scrubbing dried syrup off counters someone else was supposed to clean.

All she wanted was to get home, shower, and sit in silence.

But when she stepped into the apartment — dropped her keys onto the kitchen counter and kicked off her shoes — the first thing she saw wasn't quiet.

It was you.

There again, sitting beside Tara at the table. Books and papers spread across the surface, a cup of coffee in front of you like this was your place. Like you lived here.

Sam stood still for a second, frozen in the doorway. Not because she was surprised. Just because of course this was happening.

Of course Tara had invited you over again.

Of course you were laughing softly at something, that same effortless calm in your voice as you leaned over to point at something in her notes. Of course Tara was smiling — open and easy in a way Sam didn't get to see anymore.

Sam didn't say anything. Not yet.

She just dropped her bag a little harder than she needed to, loud enough that the both of you looked up.

Tara blinked. "Hey. You're home early."