BEWITCH

the soiree was in full swing by the time she arrives, a cloud of lavender following her, dressed in velvet, and an ever present smile on her face as she greets old and new faces. she’s snubbed by a select few, to which she understands their hesitance in acknowledging her. hwang hyunsik’s wrath knew no bounds, and if he still had an unspoken taboo placed upon after all these years, it’s safer for everyone involved that they ignore her. despite being disowned, she was under constant speculation, still held to the standard of being a pure-blood daughter despite having no family claiming her. wizarding society had been divided in the aftermath, many having empathized with her, but most condemned her for going against status quo, judged her for turning her back on their history and tradition. while most folk ignored her, there were always a select few that made their ire known. she rolls her eyes for the umpteenth time that night as she’s shouldered and bodied by nameless and faceless socialites ( the next bitch to bump into her, purposefully or not, was gonna get their teeth knocked into the back of their throat ) fortunately, people gave her a wide berth, sensing her irritation, which rolls off her in palpable waves. only a few brave souls ignore the frosty aura she exudes and engage her in conversation, to which she supplies with equally chilling words until they retreat, tail tucked between their legs. her mood only worsens when she sees a familiar face drifting in the crowd of strangers. the frown marring her face deepens when she sees he’s not alone. she’s awash with jealousy, practically drowning in it the longer she stares. the last she’s seen of him had been in the beginning of the year, when she had returned. they hadn’t promised each other anything when they separated, but she held out on a dim hope that they could rekindle what they once had. but it had all been for naught—he had someone new, and she was left with only memories ( she could drink to that )

“most men, i do agree.” his gaze sits on the hem of her skirt, more specifically on the way she fidgets along the line of it. impatient, perhaps bothered, most likely both. she’s not hard to read, her body language speaking for most of her mind rather than her words. “—not so much under that specific stereotype, but under our premise at the moment. no-brainer of a guess, really.” he references the distance between them, the close proximity of their lips. he’d achieve less than a laugh out of her if he were to say, ‘no, i’m only in it for the profound exchange of words. do you perhaps enjoy the philosophy of socrates?’ instead of going straight for the emotionless exchange of body warmth.

what a great joke, with no irony added (he’ll save that line for next time.)

“yes, but also– but i do like the chase.” just the nature of us all. it’s a jab at her desperate pursuit, lukewarm smile drawn along the end of their rather one-sided kiss. nevermind the strokes, he’s more interested in the way she races– spilling her dignity and composure all over as she does. someone who lacks a false front, true to her desires and extremely vulnerable: the singularities he loves the most out of all and any other human traits.

“i can tell.” it’s self-moving, the way he drags down her skirt to grant her obvious wish. he’ll pry at her scab after he’s aided her in fixing up a makeshift fill-in for the void. only to have it fall apart again, but people run on a treadmill of mistakes. the same one, over and over. haram never gets sick of its continuum. will never.

“alright. i won’t make you say it again.”

he’ll ask for the payoff in words. later.

"you talk too much, do you know that ?” choa can’t help but let out a watery laugh tinged with hysteria. why couldn’t he have been like other men who were more than happy to forego pleasantries and foreplay ? choa normally isn’t prone to begging, but with the languid pace this man was going, she was just about to cave—and cave she does. pride gives way to desperation as she reaches out for him, fingers carding through his soft hair, gently gripping the back of his head to tilt it, baring his neck which her lips immediately slant over. she leaves imprints of her teeth upon his skin: angry red marks which she soothes with the tip of her tongue. she hisses through clenched teeth when she feels his cold fingers pull at her skirt—and she’s all too eager to help him, raising her hips as he rolls it past her thighs and knees, until it falls to the floor, a formless heap. suddenly shy, she curls in on herself, only to be deterred by the object of her desire ( there’s no point in feeling shame, especially when she takes into account the lengths she’s already gone to get where she is now ) “please, please, please...”

she should feel sheepish about choa’s gentle way of letting her know the other girl knows exactly what she did, but she doesn’t, not really. not when choa seems fine with it, which is really what matters. both of them enjoy the cakes in a comfortable quiet, polishing off both plates before choa gives her a reply on her suggestion.

her questions don’t surprise her – she’s a fifth year, she should have her wand obedient and under her control. it is, in some ways; she knows it’d never do any magic for anyone but her alone, and it’s learnt when the spells she casts aren’t meant to be ‘interpreted’, as is. but she’d like a little better control over it nonetheless, for the sake of her spell-casting and the rumours that have started to plague her ( she still can’t control her wand? that must be embarrassing for the wons. ).

so jiyi presses down on the worry that choa will start to judge her down, because she does want the older girl’s help. “hmm…” she thinks about the best ( and least embarrassing ) way to put it, coming up with, “it’s not failing me, or acting by itself, anything like that! it’s just… something the spells i cast, it won’t do the exact spell that was cast. instead of lumos it conjures up a floating ball of light, stuff like that.” she frowns, feeling the need to defend her wand despite the trouble its been giving her. “but it only acts up when i’m not exactly precise. or,” she tilts her head to the side, thinking about it, “it’s most obedient when i’m really precise? i don’t know,” jiyi shakes her head, holding an hand out in choa’s direction. “that’s why i thought i’d ask someone with more experience!”

her single question turned into a barrage of invasive inquiries, and if they made jiyi uncomfortable, that hadn’t been her intention. jiyi was not the first, nor will she be the last, witch or wizard that has struggled with such a phenomenon in regards to their ward. it was more commonplace than many have been taught to believe, but there was still a stigma revolving around the occurrence. so she reiterates her thoughts, hoping to ease the mind of her dongsaeng, “there’s nothing to be ashamed of, jiyi. magic is a living thing, and oftentimes, it has a mind of its own—” she smiles whilst saying this, recollecting the special moments in which magic had left her awestruck “—magic will always endeavor to do good—” she shifts in her seat, getting comfortable as she props her elbows onto the table, leaning towards the younger girl as if she were to impart a secret “—to my knowledge, wands act as if they have personalities of their own, which i think isn’t too far off with what you have going on here. your wand is a part of you, an extension of your body. it’s the conduit that allows us to manipulate the magic within us to do our bidding. we have a symbiotic relationship with them, and as we mature as witches and wizards, our wands work in tandem with that exponential growth.”

He misses it the first time, eyes elsewhere because that’s what being knee-deep in grading papers for DADA 203 on a Saturday night gets you. With enough drink in his system and the living room light set to a comfortable dim, it’s admittedly not that bad, but that can be used to describe just about anything that requires a glass of wine for starters.

It’s only when Taejoon gets up from the couch moments later does the phone finally grab his attention. The name that lights up the screen doesn’t allow for much pause—after all, Hwang Choa is nothing more but a friendly face in passing, as most acquaintances who find their way back in Yosul’s halls tend to be.

The greeting he’s got prepared keeps that in mind, along the lines of hey, how are you, the whole nine yards because knowing someone only vaguely leaves for all sorts of possibilities that he’s about to be subject to. Most times it’s a favor, and most times when it’s asked politely, it’s agreed upon in the same fashion.

But the second he picks up the call, it’s nothing, nothing of the sort. Gone are the chances for niceties, or even a second to breathe because Choa is slurring a mile a minute, volatile and weepy and talking way too fucking loud for this to be a casual conversation.

Regret? Leaving? Ruined her life? That’s a train of thought he hadn’t seen coming. So much so that for a good second he’s rendered speechless from the shock.

“Um…what?” Is all Taejoon can come up with when he finds his voice. “I mean,” he chuckles nervously. As far as leaving anything (or anyone) goes, the only thing that comes to mind is the dueling club after a couple semesters. “I know you lost pretty bad in a duel that one time but gee, you really hold a grudge…”

dumbfounded by the voice on the other end of the line, choa backtracks, confused at the response she receives from her verbal lashing. staring down at her phone, she blinks owlishly, trying to focus on the blurry letters that make up the name she had called in a drunken stupor. vision finally focusing through her alcohol addled haze, she realizes that the man she had spent the past ten minutes yelling at and crying over hadn’t even been the person she thought they were. a myriad of different emotions wash over her, predominantly embarrassment, as her thumb hovers over the end call icon. but she had to explain herself, she couldn’t let him go thinking he had did her any wrong when it was quite the opposite. noh taejoon had been a peer she respected during her time as a student at yosul. he had been a fellow member of their alma mater’s dueling club, and have held each other at wand point once upon a time. he had been a worthy adversary, always keeping choa on her toes. a challenge has always been appreciated, and taejoon had always done above and beyond that—he had even bested her on many occasions. they were acquainted, and that’s what made it so much harder for choa to hang up and pretend that this had been all a mistake. sucking in a breath, she closes her eyes, utilizing a breathing exercise the self-help books she read suggested she do when she needed to slow things down. better later than never, she presses her phone to her ear, croaking out a proper greeting, “t-taejoon ! i’m so sorry about that, noona’s—” ( why was she talking in fucking third person ? taejoon isn’t a child ) “—i’m...i’m drunk—” the anticlimactic explanation for the cause of all of this elicits a hysterical laugh from choa, who knocks her head back, ramming it into the wall behind her. cursing, she soothes the bump which steadily grew under her fingertips, tears pricking at her eyes as she tries to collect herself to properly explain what the fuck was going on “—sorry, taejoon. i’m, well, for a lack of a better word, i’m a mess.”

days on end are spent worrying over her impending nuptials, her future beyond yosul, and most recently, the dark cloud looming over her friends. she never realized something had gone awry until she took a breath and stepped back from everything. there was a noticeable distance between them, one that hadn’t been there before, and it was disconcerting seeing them in the same space, repelling one another. she didn’t ask what had happened, but her mind was burning with curiosity. but that could wait, there were more important things that needed to be done. she did her best consoling jungmi, doing the absolute most to give her the emotional support she sorely needed by being by her side, a silent pillar of strength. but her mind was reeling with questions gone unsaid and unanswered: what had happened ? weren’t things going well ? why ? she had let it fester like an unattended wound, and no longer could she stand by and watch her friend deteriorate before her. she had to do something, anything, to fix what must have been broken. with her mind made up to bridge the gap between them, choa finds herself staring down a familiar doorway, eyes tracing over invisible patterns she sees in the wood grain. she contemplates whether or not this was the right thing to do, if it was her place to mitigate the suffering of her friends, to counsel a relationship she had no part of—she was just an outsider looking in, a spectator. but in her mind’s eye, visions of an inconsolable jungmi push her forward, hand poised over the door, knuckles hitting the wood twice.

choa stares down at the choices she had picked in each hand: her favorite and trusty side kick, a fillbert she’s had since her early years at yosul, and her recent purchase, a niji waterbrush she has yet to use. she was feeling adventurous today and tucks the waterbrush into the flap of her backpack, where her essentials mixed with her other knick knacks. shouldering her bag, she walks around her apartment, double and triple checking that she had turned off her appliances before closing and locking up. exiting her complex, the curse-breaker follows the familiar path she’s walked countless times towards the han river park. forever was she grateful that her complex was a few mere blocks away from her destination: walking distance if she was feeling proactive, and a three stop bus ride if she was lazy. but today she wanted to enjoy the rare warm weather, so she undertakes the short trek there, and in no time at all, choa enters the park. she revels in the simplicity of the view before her: marvels at the glittering waters yonder, basks in the warm embrace of the sun while the last of winter’s wind cools her heated skin. a beautiful day indeed. eager to find an ideal spot, choa adjusts her grip on her backpack and breaks into a jog, eyes surveying the park for a place she could settle and observe. dropping down onto a thatch of grass overshadowed by a tree, choa reclines against the trunk, crossing her legs whilst tossing her back unto her lap, laying claim to the space. slipping her phone out of her pocket, she shoots a quick text to her companion for the day:

11:44AM 💬 ➠   《 chaerin 📷🎨 》 : i’m here!  11:45AM 💬 ➠   《 chaerin 📷🎨 》 : sitting under a tree so i don’t tan 11:47AM 💬 ➠   《 chaerin 📷🎨 》 : if you get lost, just tell me and i’ll come find you!

he certainly reads them. at least, a few.

shoves his phone back into his coat pocket like laying a fucking brick. no plan to take it back out ( he does, at least once more, against best judgement ) his expression so unkindly and inhospitable, a wintry of inviolability that was never there before. everyone in the halls of ymmc accustomed to sliding out of his way like they were all cogs and he was such a vital piece that they all naturally just moved around him. he kept everything running smoothly, all of the pieces working there stayed in tact, in place, as long as he could remain unblocked on his path. lee jaeho stalking the halls, a methodical pattern to his movement when he assuming the role of healer, or of the Lee in the building ( in the lack of his father’s presence )it wasn’t out of the ordinary. it was commonplace to see him briskly chasing a cool line, what wasn’t so usual, was the was his usually assessing ( but ultimately harmless searching, doing his job, keeping things in line ) had turned sharp, a gleam to his gaze, like the sharp side of a blade catching the light. the way every look implied he was searching for a loose thread to cut loose. and it isn’t any of the staff that were at fault. ( his phone buzzes ! again ) the muscle of his jaw jumps in place and a healer that he turns to a little too fast freezes in place ( stop messaging ) “transfer the moon patient to C1, send in hanbin. he’s doing much better ; he can handle this.” he implies she should move out of hanbin’s way and give him the lead with his tone and she picks it up, he sees in her gaze. the way she bobbles a nod an of course. and he takes off, sheathes the blade and everyone keeps their job today( buzz ! ) his expression is stone.

her name is minhee ( his father had called him to deliver the happy news at dusk, nearly 6pm) jaeho thinks of the name. it sounds nothing like choa. that’s okay, for the best, really. he goes to sleep without looking at the remainder of the messages. even in his sleep he frowns.

this time, he leaves his phone in his office. he’s tired of the buzzing ( the way it makes things feel urgent, gives the stakes of not answering a hum of recognition that leaves his fingers tingling ) and by the time he returns to said office, he’s missed more. haunting near his desk, wondering if he even wants to look. eventually, he can’t avoid it any longer. he should stop behaving this way, it isn’t in his nature to run from things, so it’s with a cool swipe that he listens to the voicemail.

and it’s with a much, much cooler frost to his expression that he slips on his jacket and apparates nearby to her. everything in him is tensed with something supremely controlled to a point of snapping as he finds his way there, peels open the door and his expression he meant to be neutral garners him at least a few double takes.

he spots her instantaneously. her favorite all the way to the exact section she preferred. his eyes jump over her features, it feels nostalgic, and sad. watching the last episode of a drama, saying goodbye to a loved one before they move. he doesn’t ask to sit down just does. doesn’t say a word until he’s propped primly in his chair, leg crossed over the other, the dent between his brows leading a gruff, “hey,” there’s no pretext to the somewhat grim way he doesn’t feel like he needs to explain to her something is wrong. they had played this game too long not to know. she’s too damn smart. “i’m not free, but i made some time.” he curtly throws the words onto the table, “would you like to eat lunch?” it sounds more miserly than it should, but he means it.

she had been lost in thought, her gaze peering through the glass of the tea shoppe aimlessly when she had been forcibly removed from them by his sudden appearance. his frosty expression doesn’t match his youthful countenance, and it’s because of this that she immediately knows that something is wrong. anxiety flutters in her stomach like butterflies as dread encases her heart in a cold, vice-like grip, but she masks the trepidation she feels with an equally cool expression of her own. the only sign telltale sign of her apprehension could be seen in the minute trembling of her hands, which she moves off the table and settles into her lap. she doesn’t want to give away how unnerved she is, though he probably realizes anyway. he’s known her long enough to read her like an open book, much to her chagrin; she can’t hide anything from him. 

“hello, jaeho—” she says in greeting after a moment of terse silence. once she trusts her hands to cease their tremors, she pulls out the menus tucked behind the small condiment rack to the side. she passes one his way, eyes glossing over the words; unseeing “—sorry if i pulled you away from anything important. thank you, for making time to see me anyway—” the words feel like ashes in her throat ( suffocating her with every inhale ) but she manages to speak with a wan smile. she turns her eyes back unto the menu, secretively peering over the laminated paper to observe him. she notes the frown that mars his face, the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he looks as if he would rather be anywhere else than here, with her. it dawns on her then, that this was it for them—the end she had known would come along since the start. that very notion is her undoing; it unravels her. letting the menu fall from her hands unto the floor, she stands abruptly, metal chair screeching against the wooden floors. she can’t stomach lunch now that the seed has been planted, the idea that grows ever more powerful every second she looks at him. tears prick at her eyes, threatening to fall, so she turns away, collecting herself with deep breaths, wiping away the stray tear that managed to escape with the end of her sleeve ( she only hopes he doesn’t notice, or it’d only make it harder for her ) “i’m not very hungry. how about we go for a walk instead ?—” at least side by side, she wouldn’t need to look at him wordlessly answering all her fears. ( endure, endure, just endure and it’ll all be over ) sucking in a shaky breath, she grabs her bag from the back of her chair, placing it on her shoulder as she makes her way towards the exit, not waiting to see if he follows her. she didn’t want to do this here, not with so many prying eyes watching them, sitting at the edges of their seats to hear more of their conversation. if today would be their last, it would end on her terms; in a place that would be easily forgettable, somewhere she would walk past and never feel the pinprick of tears. she didn’t want this sad memory in the making to taint one of the few places that made her happy. 

'oh, my turn! alright, my favourite classes are charms, history of magic and wizarding literature, but i swear ancient runes and dada are right behind them! history of magic really has the reputation of just being… boring, but i really like how it’s almost like reading stories. except they’re real. and we have to analyse them. but i love learning more about the wizarding world because i was raised in the maeobsa world until my parents were sure i have magic in my blood, so i didn’t grow up knowing things others may consider common knowledge. charms and dada are fun, and wizarding literature is always interesting. ancient runes is a little challenging, but enough that it fascinates me instead of pushing me away. my least favourite subjects are potions and herbology. for potions, the theory part isn’t the problem, but somehow i can’t get the hang of actually making potions. and plants just don’t seem to like me, so!’ she lets out a little laugh. 'i dropped herbology, but potions seem to be important for a lot of careers so i’m still suffering through it. and… how i take my coffee and tea? honestly i’ve never been fond of coffee, and i love this type of tea from china called pu'er, have you heard of it? it’s really nice. and lastly, i love cheong ryeong but i think hyeon mu seems really cool as well. we can never have too much wisdom and creativity.’

she inclines her head as she recalls choa’s answer to the last question. 'you said baek ho would have taught you to be braver, but i think you seem pretty brave already. i mean, becoming a curse-breaker and all can’t be easy.'

she’s endeared by how lively yuanlan speaks of her interests, and of herself as a person. it was refreshing listening to how freely her mentee spoke—and choa made mental notes to remember all these tidbits for later. while her mind worked on remembering these, she continued jotting down notes here and there on the spare sheet of paper she had scrounged up earlier. she reacts appropriately, ‘ooh-ing’ and ‘ahh-ing’ in all the right places, surprised by how much they had in common, whilst being amused by yuanlan’s honesty. a lesser student wouldn’t have been as candid as she to admit what she had. “pu’er ? i think this is the first time i’ve ever heard of it, and i’ve been to a lot of places—” choa comments, organizing her notes “—i’ll have to try it out the next time i visit china on business. if you have any recommendations, please feel free to share them !—” choa smiles serenely as her eyes drop back to the notes she had written whilst yuanlan rambled on. she had a pretty packed schedule, one that abided protocol in pursuit for a higher education after yosul, should she choose to “—from what i have gathered, you’re very well on your way towards a bright future. you have a lot of options open to you, and i think it wise to keep an open mind when thinking about your future. a lot of things will change as you continue your journey with yosul. but don’t worry, you aren’t alone, that’s why i’m here to help and guide you should you have any questions.”

his gaze trails to her pale set of hands, her withdrawn shirt now on the floor, then his own hand under her skirt. he only slides his hand just a little far up her skirt, letting his fingers trail before brushing away. pulling in by her waist, he shifts their positions: her now below him, him just a few inches above her, hand next to her head. he’s not one to chase intimacy, nor let things burn up too quickly. after all, what’s a game without the hike?

he speaks with his other hand now right above her heart.

“tell me. do you really want me to?”

“don’t most men just want to get right on with business ?” she quips with more bravado than she feels. she had always been clever, it was one of her more attractive qualities, as she’s been told. all the while she speaks, choa toys with the edge of his shirt, a subtle hint that he’s wearing far too many clothes ( she just wanted a fuck, not idle chit chat ) “i’m simply appealing to your nature—” men were all the same: always more than happy to take, but god forbid they reciprocate and give in return “—isn’t that what you want ?” 

perhaps her attempt at teasing touches a nerve, or maybe he’s just a man that prefers to be in charge—but within the next breath their positions are changed. he hovers above her, the lines of their bodies pressed flush together, his hips cradled betwixt her thighs, her skirt bunched around her waist ( ah, this is what she wanted. the intimacy of not knowing where she ended and where someone else began ) she sees him clearly now that they’re this close, the haze of inebriation having muddled the edges of her vision ( he’s pretty; soft sloping cheeks, pillowy lips, foxlike eyes. he’s so unlike the others before him )  dainty fingers splay themselves upon his shoulders as she shifts beneath him, legs parting wider as an invitation as her hands slide down the expanse of his clothed chest, until she reaches the end of his shirt. fisting the material, she tugs it upward, exposing his flesh ( a step in the direction she wants them to go in ) 

as they both dig into the cakes and their drinks, jiyi taps the fork against her lips, thinking of a nice way to frame her request. “hmm… if you aren’t too busy, unnie, maybe you could help me with my spells? i mean, you’ll know, my wand isn’t always predictable.” she pouts, and takes another bite of the cake, chews around it before adding, “an’ you were really good in the dueling club, but i never really got the chance to ask you for help then…” she smiles, and gives choa her best puppy dog eyes. “do you think you’d have the time to help me out, please?”

it comes to no surprise that jiyi has taken a peek through her sketchbook. it wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last, that curiosity got the better of someone. while others shied away from sharing their works, choa loved it, loved sharing how she viewed the world with others, wondering if they too saw it the same way she did. whatever pages jiyi flipped through, she only hoped she loved and found beauty in the depictions she roughly sketched out onto the pages. “thank you—” choa leaves it at that, sending a knowing look at jiyi that she hoped conveyed she understood “—and you’re welcome. please enjoy yourself, jiyi.”

she doesn’t know how she could let herself fall this far. choa has known all along that she’s been slipping through the cracks, bits and pieces of herself falling away as she continues down her path to self-destruction. so starved of touch and affection, she chose to seek it in all the wrong places. she sought company in the arms of strangers: begged for their touch and attention with coy smiles and secretive glances. she yearned to feel someone’s hands apply pressure to her hips, for those same hands to spread her thighs and touch her. for a touch so featherlight, to glide across the skin of her ribs, for fingers to wrap themselves around the column of her neck, making her breath hitch in the back of her throat as lungs burn with the need to breathe. she sought out pleasure and pain, forces that would push her mind into a subspace so she could focus on sensation without overthinking it—because overthinking was something hwang choa does best.

those desires are what brings her here now, with a man whose name she’ll never ask for, or know, to her front doorstep. she never takes anyone home; it went against her modus operandi, messed with her need to escape in the middle of the night once the deed was done. perhaps it goes to show how desperate she was, of how badly she was spiraling out of control where she willingly invites a man into her space. there was something so intimate about allowing another human into a place she considered her haven, it felt sacrilegious, even. but sheer desperation clouded her mind as she finds herself punching in the code to her door. peering over her shoulder, she makes eye contact with the first man she’s ever brought home, leading him in before she could change her mind.

she sways in her seat, moving in time with the electric beat that bounced from wall to wall; a heavy rhythm with which her heart matched. tilting her head back, choa polishes off her fifth beer in a row. sliding the empty glass towards the bartender for another bottle, the woman manning the front looks at her skeptically before giving her another, which choa greedily accepts and sips at. as she finishes her refill, a familiar song comes on—one that she’s sung at the top of her lungs, hairbrush in hand, while jumping on her bed. a song that never fails to send, a song full of nostalgia. sliding off the barstool, choa runs into the belly of the beast, shouldering past other dancers until she’s in the very thick of it. the energy around her pulses in tandem with the music, and as the track reaches its peak, a cacophony of voices sing back the lyrics of the song that’s wrapped them all around its finger. pressed between bodies, choa swings her head wildly, side to side, up and down, feeling the music that thrums heavenly in her veins; like adrenaline. when she peels back her eyelids, she’s dazzled by the lights glinting technicolor overhead, and as her gaze focuses to those dancing around her, she spies a familiar face through writhing bodies and wayward limbs. it’s the face of a man she hasn’t seen in years, and one she hoped to never see again. ( i need to leave, i need to get out, i can’t be here, i can’t, i can’t, i can’t— ) so she flees; absconding the dance floor, and out past the glass double doors caging patrons within. the chilly breeze is sobering, and it gives choa the moment of clarity she needs. ( walk away, just walk away. don’t go back there. don’t go where he is ) but she remains, back pressed against stucco, sliding down until her ass touches cold concrete. with trembling hands, she pulls her phone from her front pocket, fingers swiping endlessly, eyes blearily searching for the name she had once tattooed on her heart.