#cairo sweet

"Hell no, Miami is way too far. Let's go somewhere closer," Mindy shakes her head, rejecting her brother's suggestion.

"I agree," Sam chimes in, "there’s no reason to go that far. You guys are only off for a week anyway."

"Oh come on!" Chad whines. "Every hot babe in the country is spending their break in Miami," he says to Mindy, wiggling his eyebrows, hoping it'll convince her. "—and hot guy!" he quickly adds, glancing at the older Carpenter sister.

"Not a cougar, Chad."

"Not yet," he smirks. "But there’s also graduate students!" he reminds her, trying to make his pitch even more convincing.

And so it didn’t take much to convince Mindy and Sam. You didn’t really care where you went as long as you were with your girlfriend. Though Tara wasn’t exactly thrilled about you being surrounded by "hot babes." Thankfully your reassurance was well received by her.

A week before the trip, you made sure to remind Tara to download some movies, bring a book, or at least have something to keep her entertained during the long drive. Nearly a day on the road wasn’t going to be easy, and you knew better than anyone how quickly your girlfriend gets bored.

Your suggestions clearly went in one ear and out the other as it was now only two hours into the drive, and Tara was already staring blankly out the window, her head resting against the seat. You could almost feel the frustration radiating from her as she tapped her foot impatiently.

"How are you feeling over there, babe?" you ask, glancing over at her with a teasing smile.

Tara groans, not bothering to look at you. "This is so boring... I thought I'd at least get to watch a movie, but nooo, you guys had to stop for gas every five minutes." She rolls her eyes. "Why can't you just fill the tank all the way?"

Chad shouts from the driver's seat, clearly proud of himself. "Hey! I’m not wasting a single drop of gas. We’re only putting in what we need to get us to the next stop. This is a budget trip!"

"I swear I'll be dead before we reach North Carolina," Tara mutters, stretching out in her seat. You can’t help but chuckle, even though you feel bad for her. You knew long drives weren't her thing, but you also couldn't help the smile that played on your lips whenever she got so dramatic.

"Okay, okay," you say. "How about I tell you a story? I know you love my storytelling." Tara gives you a side eye but doesn’t reject the offer.

"Fine, but this better not be one of your stupid ‘ghost stories’ again," she warns, though you can tell she’s trying to hide a smile.

You chuckle. "No ghost stories this time, I promise. I’ll tell you about that time Mindy got stuck in the elevator for half an hour…"

Tara snorts, leaning back in her seat, clearly entertained by the idea of your story. It’s not much, but it’s enough to take her mind off the endless hours ahead.

X

Hours into the drive, the conversation had died down, leaving a comfortable silence. Tara shifted closer to you, her hand brushing against your leg. You glanced at her, raising an eyebrow.

"Baby, I’m so bored," she whispered, her voice soft but purposeful, grazing your ear.

Chad had been driving for about three hours now, with only three more before Sam would take over for the next six-hour stretch. Over the last few hours, Tara had slowly inched her way closer to you, practically glued to your side, cuddling into you though, honestly, you weren’t complaining.

She leaned in again, her lips barely grazing your ear as she whispered, “I’ve got some ideas for how we can pass the time…” Her tone was teasing, and you could feel your pulse quicken and your cock harden in response.

You knew exactly what she meant. That look in her eyes—the same one you saw for the first time that night in her dorm a year ago. And now, here she was again, sitting next to you in the back of a seven-seater Sam rented for this trip, that same mischievous glint in her eyes. She wanted you to fuck her.

You shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Mindy, who was listening to music in the seat in front of you. “Uh… no, your sister’s right there, and we could get caught,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady.

Tara pouted, clearly not pleased with your response. She sighed dramatically, then slid down and rested her head on your lap, her body curling comfortably against yours. For a moment, you thought she’d given up, but then her hand found yours, resting on her hip, and slowly slid it upwards.

Your breath hitched, and you glanced nervously at Mindy, but she was still blind to the world around her, listening to her music. And Sam was talking to Chad about something in the passenger seat. Tara’s eyes met yours, and you hesitated for a moment, not being able to decide if you want to take the risk.

You accept defeat and let Tara slowly drag your hand under her shirt. All you could do is look into her eyes that were starting back at yours. She goes higher and higher and you realize she isn't wearing a fucking bra. She smirks at your realization, and shrugs coyly. Her hand leaves your, and now your left hand is just placed on her bare chest. The next move up to you.

You sigh before you take your fore finger and thumb and graze it across her left nipple, assessing how good she'll be at being quiet. Her expression changes immediately and she let's out a gasp that's a bit too loud for comfort.

You freeze. And so does Tara. Luckily no one heard. You begin to take your hand away from under her shirt, but she slaps her hand onto your arm. And mouths, "No, I'll be quiet."

You hesitate not sure if you should listen to your girlfriend's words. In all the times you've been intimate with Tara, she was anything but quiet. You were convinced all of Blackmore knew you by name and you didn't even go there.

But this situation just excited you too much, and you were way too far gone and started thinking with your dick.

You bring your fingers back up to her nipple and roll it between your fingers, feeling it get hard almost immediately. Your eyes darken further at the feeling. The confidence in Tara's eyes disappeared immediately and replaced with a blissful look, yearning for your touch. Fuck she looked pathetic. Exactly how you liked it. 

"How about the other one?" she whispers.

You nod, and let your fingers trail to her other nipple, giving it the exact treatment as you did the left nipple. From your past experiences with Tara you knew that nipple play was enough to make her cum, and you weren't sure if that's what you wanted in this exact situation.

Thinking about her cunt that was probably dripping wet for you right now, was killing you. Your cock was throbbing in your joggers, begging to be let out. But you had no plans to fuck your girlfriend in the back of this van.

"Y/n," Sam suddenly calls out to you from the front seat. "Is this your first time heading to Florida?"

You jolt at the sudden question, and casually answer Sam's question while still playing with Tara's nipple. "Yup, never really had a reason to head down there, what about you?"

Sam responds and you continue to have small talk with her while making her little sister squirm on your lap.

Suddenly while you were mid-sentence defending New York pizza, Tara brings her top down letting you what you've been working on for the past twenty minutes. Her hard nipples on full display. 

"I—uh, it's..."

"See! Woodsboro may be a lot of things, but we have the best pizza. You can't even come up with an argument."

I could. But I'm too busy gawking at your sister's boobs. 

"Yeah I guess you got me there Sam," you sigh, loud enough for her to hear, while shooting Tara wide eyes for her ballsy move. 

You remove your hands abruptly and keep it to yourself. Forcing yourself to look out the window next to you. You could not keep doing this with Tara unless she wanted to get caught, and you only recently got in Sam's good books, you can't risk losing your place.

Tara sits up next to you after adjusting her top, and clings right back up to you. "Okay, I'm sorry, I'll be more careful," she whispers into your ear.

You don't budge and continue to look out the window. 

"Please touch me Y/n."

Your dick twitched at the desperation in her voice. God you were going to bust right in your fucking pants. Why did you have to have such a hot fucking girlfriend?

Tara clearly took notice of your pants and smiled. "Fine, you do the being quiet then."

She then palms your member over the material of your pants and you take in a sharp breath. "Tara." you warn her.

"Relax, just don't make a sound."

You let her run her hand up and down your clothed cock and sigh, pushing yourself further into her touch. Your breaths were becoming uneven, and slightly louder.

Clearly Tara wasn't afraid of getting caught and she took it upon herself to move her hand under your jogger, now above your boxers. Only one layer of clothing between her hand and your cock.

She almost moans at the heat radiating from your member, the slight twitches weren't helping her keep her cool either. She moved her hand lower towards the head, and could feel the wetness of your precum through your boxers. She took this as the sign to rub her thumb over the slit of your tip which she could feel over your undergarments.

You let out a muffled moan, covering your mouth with your arm sleeve. You look at Tara who has her full attention on your pants. You know she wanted to see her work. She wanted to see how hard she got your throbbing cock, just like you had wanted to see her hard nipples.

After making sure everyone in the car had their attention elsewhere, you decided to return the favor and slowly lift your hips up so you can slide your joggers down with your boxers.

Your dick springs out and slaps against your stomach, your cock was at it's full length and Tara watched in amazement. Even after a year of being together she was amazed at the size of your member.

She was getting ready to put her hair back in a ponytail when suddenly Mindy began to take her earbuds out, and she turned around to you both. Luckily you were able to throw a hoodie over your lap in records time, covering your hard dick.

"Tar do you think you could reach over and grab some snacks from the trunk?" the twin asks clearly hungry.

"Yeah of course," she answers, turning to face the back of the van, bent over to grab snacks from where the group had left all their baggage.

Looking at her ass was clearly the bad move, as you were already struggling to hide the tent in your pants.

"How you holding up Y/n?" Mindy suddenly asked you.

"I'm good, it's honestly nice sitting in the back. Pretty spacious."

"Yeah, I'm totally sitting there on the ride back."

Fortunately, Tara was able to grab something for Mindy to munch on and you didn't need to talk to her any longer. With a quick thanks. Mindy put her earbuds back on, and started away at the snacks.

Tara sees your cock switch again under the hoodie and decided to waste no more time. While using the hoodie as a cover, she spit in her right palm and immediately got to work on your shaft. Slowly sliding up and down at a pace that was ruining you. You buck your hips into her hand needing more contact, your desire for touch taking over all your senses.

"Tara you're so little I can't even see you above these seats."

You could see Sam due to your height, she turned around looking right at you, but she was right. The row of seats in front of you where Mindy was sitting was completely hiding Tara from view even with her sitting upright. So Sam was one less person to worry about unless one of us make a sound.

Tara continues rubbing you out one while responding to her sister like you had done earlier. "Oh no way," she fakes interest. And then suddenly you see an idea pop into her head.

She removes her hand wrapped around your cock and plops herself down on your lap, just in front of your raging boner. "I guess I'll have to sit on Y/n's lap if you want to see me," she laughs lightly.

Sam just smiles and brings her attention back to the front, looking at the GPS.

You thought after she turned back around Tara would go back to her usual seat but no she had a different idea. She lifted her hips slightly just enough where you could see her ruined panties under her skirt, and she turned to look at you expectantly.

"Tara we can't," you mutter. Not believing these words were coming out of your mouth but it was just too risky.

Tara doesn't say anything and just drops her covered cunt onto your cock. And then she begins to slowly rock her hips back and forth, using you as she pleases.

You groan at the contact, and she's covering her own mouth too as she let's her pace pick up, your cock clearly rubbing the places she needs you the most. 

During her aggressive movements against you, her panties must've moved to the side, because you could feel the wetness of her pussy now rubbing full contact against you cock, her pussy lips sandwiches your length while she moves herself forward and back.

The direct contact on her pussy makes her moan. And this time someone heard. 

"Did you say something?" Chad asks no one in particular.

Tara takes it upon herself to answer. "Just telling Y/n/n how good these snacks are!" she manages to say without causing for suspicion.

Tara looks back at you again, while she rocks on your dick. "Just fuck me already," she whispers with desperation.

You decided that you were basically enacting the motions of sex and it wouldn't be the end of the world if you actually did fuck your girlfriend. But maybe that was just horny brain talking.

You gently lift her up by her hips with both hands, and line her hole up with your fully erect dick. You then give her the pass to lower herself, and she does. And you wonder why you ever refused the idea of secret van sex. You should have done this hours ago.

Tara is breathing a lot heavier as she is slowly rising up and down your shaft letting herself feel the entirety of you cock. You want to push your hips up to meet her cunt, but you fear the noise of your balls pounding against her ass will give you away to the group immediately.

"Oh I love this song! Chad turn it up!" Mindy exclaims, taking her earbuds out once again.

You and Tara look at each other. The music was booming in the car. You looked at everyone else in the car, and their lips were moving but you couldn't hear a single thing that was being said. And that only meant one thing. You could make sound.

You quickly lift Tara's hips up and hold it there, while you reverse jack hammer your dick up into her dripping pussy, the sounds only heard by you both. Tara leaned back, her mouth against your neck, as her moans muffled against you. As if she needed to be quiet right now. She was in pure bliss, and so were you as you let moans out of your own.

The song then came to an end and Chad brought the volume back to a regular level. Tara sits down fully on your cock, and you don't move either, the both of you tired from the rapid fucking you just had seconds ago.

You thought that was it. You doubt either of you wanted to cum and make a mess in the rental. But the universe had different plans as Chad switches lanes aggressively. Making Tara shift against you aggressively. And then he did it again. And so did she. And finally Sam had enough and told Chad that she'll start driving from now on.

So Chad pulls off the highway towards the pit stop. Only thing was, the parking lot for this stop was littered with speed bumps. And Chad being the horrible driver that he was didn't know that he was supposed to tap the breaks over each speed bump. Which meant that each bump that Chad would driver over, the car would rapidly shake, causing Tara to bounce on your dick. You groaned, and with each bounce you were so fucking close to letting go.

You weren't aware of the conversations that were taking place. But Mindy had to pee, Sam wanted to get snacks, and Chad wanted to stretch his legs, so it was just you and Tara left in the parked car.

"I'm close baby," you moan more comfortably aloud once Tara starting pumping herself up and down your dick after everyone left.

"You can't cum," she whines. "What if I get bored again in a few hours?"

"Then I'll take care of you, but don't make me keep this in," you groan.

Fine, she sighs. And she maintains her pace consistenly on your member, letting you reach your high. 

"W—where should I cum?" you groan out in breaths, seconds away from reaching your climax.

"Inside."

And like her words was your release word, you shot your warm cum right inside your girlfriend. Already feeling a sense of relief.

Tara moans at the feeling of your fluids inside of her and smiles. "Thank you baby."

You just smile back at her lazily, and kiss her on the cheek. You both then fix yourselves to be acceptable so no suspicion is raised. 

"Why are we speaking about me like I'm not here?" You whisper to Chad next to you while ripping your string cheese into strands. He laughs but so does everyone else, seems like your whisper wasn't as quiet as you thought.

Tara groans frustrated and heads up the stairs, leaving her friends and you in the living room in an awkward silence.

Sam was the first to break it, "She'll come around, it's just been hard on her you know? Trusting new people and all that fun stuff."

You give her a nod completely understanding the root of Tara's issues with you, it wasn't personal but that didn't mean her distrust in you didn't sting. Especially considering it's been four months since you met the group.

"I am curious though," you speak, "She's not wrong Mindy, you're sus of everyone. And Sam why do you trust me too?"

"Well you met my brother playing pickle ball," the twin speaks. "Pickle ball doesn't really strike me as a psychopathic killer activity," she laughs.

"Neither does string cheese. Can you imagine Ghostface stringing their cheese and eating it?" Sam adds with a laugh.

You don't know whether to be relieved or offended that your habits don't indicate you to be a killer. But you're grateful that the rest of the group clicked with you quickly after Chad introduced you to them.

The core four minus Tara sometimes wanted to smack the girl across the head for being so oblivious and blind to you. Before you met the group Chad being the yapper that he is, explained all that happened in the past year and a half, so you were fairly well equipped with knowledge on how to navigate a friendship with everyone.

Everyone also noticed how attentive you were to Tara especially.  You didn't know what it was but you immediately developed a soft spot for the girl when Chad told you all she went through. Meeting her for the first time you instinctively felt the need to protect her but that's been quite hard with her negative feelings towards you, but that doesn't mean you don't try.

————

Sam eventually goes up to Tara's room once everyone leaves and decides to put an end to this.  The younger Carpenter looks at her sister from her bed when the door is opened at a speed where its hinges could fly off.

"Jesus Sam, why are we trying to break my door."

"What the hell are you doing Tara?" Sam gets to the point ignoring the question.

"What are you talking about?"

"Y/n."

"Ughhhhhh!" She turns around face planting into her pillow with a groan, hating the topic of you.

"It's been four months and you haven't once given the poor girl the benefit of the doubt." The sister says softly. "I don't know why you're so keen on hating her, it's like you want her to be Ghostface just so you can prove a point."

Tara turns around to respond, clearly annoyed.  "Because it's so clear she doesn't have good intentions!  I don't get you either sis, you want me to be cautious of people, but it's a problem when its Y/n?"

Sam sighs moving to sit on the foot of the bed, "Tara, do you not see how much that girl cares about you?"

Tara is silent and looks down at her fiddling hands not knowing what to say.  She does know how much you care and she hates it.

All those times you would come over to her place with the excuse of "Mindy sent me to grab something" but you always stayed until Sam got home from work, just so she wouldn't have to be alone.

"Clearly you do realize how much she cares for you," Sam says taking notice of her sister's silence and demeanor.

Tara turns red recalling how you would always be attentive to the leg that Ghostface broke a year ago.  You would always position yourself so she'd have access to the railing of a staircase. Offer to drive her places that may have seemed like too lengthy of a walk. Straggle behind the group when you realized she couldn't walk as fast as the others. And even deprive yourself of any physical activities that the group was participating in, so Tara wouldn't feel alone when she sat out.

"The damn girl literally sits in the kitchen whenever your hungry ass wants to cook something so you'd feel safer!" Sam suddenly says. "Even I hadn't thought about how being in the kitchen may give you PTSD."

Tara hadn't either. But now that she knew the reason why you'd sit with her in the kitchen, she realized that she did feel much more comfortable with you in there then the times you weren't. After all she did have her attack take place in the kitchen. The brown eyed girl shrunk into her sweater in shame as she recalled how poorly she treated you that day.

You leave the group who were playing an intense round of charades in the living room and decide to join Tara who was alone in the kitchen.

"Hey what are you making?" You smile.

She ignores you and continues to get the seasoning out for the mac and cheese she was making herself.

"Why aren't you playing with everyone else?" Tara suddenly spoke.

"Just wanted to see what you were up to."

"Well you can leave now," she rolls her eyes.

"I'm good, I'll stay here."

"You do know that you aren't winning any points with me by trying to talk to me and forcing proximity right?" Tara says with attitude. "I still don't trust you and if your goal isn't to kill me, but just to get in my pants, then I'm so sorry if I ever made you believe that you had a chance with me." she finishes sarcastically feigning a genuine apology.

"Not my goal," you reply keeping it short. You knew the girl would not receive anything you say, so you got up from the seat you initially took at the island in the kitchen and went to the dining table which was a little further away. Tara thought that you left since she didn't hear any comments from you anymore and her pride was too high for her to turn around and check if you were still there. She couldn't control the frown that was making its way onto her face. That was until she heard you scrolling through TikToks at the table and suddenly felt a sense of relief that couldn't be explained.

She would continue to finish her mac and cheese and tried to hide her laugh from any funny TikTok sounds she heard from your phone. And tried her hardest to shutdown her curiosity whenever she heard your laugh. As soon as she finished making her bowl, she walked out of the kitchen not even glancing at you. She was too stubborn to realize that she hadn't once thought about her attack due to your presence in the kitchen.

Until now.

"That's why I trust her Tara," Sam reveals. "She notices things that I don't. I can't always be watching out for you. You need to have a bunch who have your back, and for that to happen you need to take a chance on people here and there."

"Just think about it. Just separate your idea of Y/n being Ghostface and the possibility that she can betray you. And ask yourself what kind of person is left standing in front you. And is that the type of person you want to take a chance on."

————

Two weeks have gone by since the group last saw each other, and since then you and Tara were able to do a lot of individual thinking. Today the group decided that they went too long without seeing each other and they all decided to go to bar in downtown Manhattan.

Everyone decided to meet at the Carpenter residence, and Tara hated to admit it, but she was excited to see you, but she also felt nervous at the thought of being around you.

You were the last to arrive, and you greeted all your friends with a smile. Tara was waiting with a smile for you to greet her like you always do, but it never happened.

You ignored her.

"Is everyone ready to go?" You say looking at everyone except Tara.

The shorter girl had to compose herself before anyone realized that she was bothered by your lack of acknowledgement. She didn't know how to feel, what in the world were you doing?

The group made their way to the subway in one piece, and the two Carpenter sisters were walking side by side while everyone else was a little ahead.

"What the fuck is Y/n doing?" Tara whisper yells to her sister.

"What do you mean?" Sam replies playing stupid.

"She's not even looking at me?" Tara admits, not caring at how childish she sounds. "Why isn't she paying attention to me?"

Sam laughs at what two weeks of not seeing you and some deep reflection has done to her sister. "I mean what do you expect, it's not fair for her to keep trying for someone who doesn't make the same effort. She's probably done trying." Despite her words, Sam didn't believe a thing she was saying, she wondered what the intentions behind your actions were, but the Carpenter knew it was nothing ill.

Tara makes a hmpf sound, and tries to act unbothered by her sister's words. But the idea of you not having your gaze on her worries her more than she would like to admit.

Meanwhile 20 paces in front the sisters you and the twins are having a interesting conversation of your own.

"I can't do this anymore!" You whine looking at Mindy.

"Girl, stand the fuck up, it's been 20 minutes since we left the house, can't you see that it's already working?"

Chad chimes in, "Honestly I agree with my sister for once, she'll be yours by the end of today."

"W-whoa I don't want her to be mine or anything," you blush. "She's gone through a lot, I just need her to tolerate me, you know?"

Mindy rolls her eyes but smiles, happy that Tara has someone patient like you in her life. "Yeah yeah Y/l/n, now walk faster, it's not like she can run and catch up."

Your jaw drops while Chad drops dead in laughter.

Everyone manages to get onto the same subway cart in one piece, and you realized how much harder it was going to be acting like you can't notice Tara in here. The subway was packed from one end to the other. And you just so happened to be standing next to the only available seat.

You glance at Tara only to see her already looking at you and you immediately look away. Trying to get Mindy's attention you some how try your best to mime to her that you want Tara to sit in the free seat. Though of course Mindy's horrible charade skills translate into real life and she ends up sitting in the seat herself.

You face palm at your friend, and gave up on trying to look out for Tara. But in that very moment you notice a man getting far too close to the girl than you would like. It was a crowded cart so proximity was a given, but this seemed deliberate on the stranger's part.

Acting without thinking, you shove the guy as casually as you can to the side, not realizing that it meant you are now face to face with Tara. Just as you were about to break and speak to her, the subway doors open at your stop.

Tara hated that the doors interrupted the words you were going to say to her, but was grateful that it got her attention off of you before you could notice the blush on her cheeks.

As everyone got off the subway, you find yourself straggling behind the group out of habit. Just as you attempt to quicken your pace, you feel a tug on your sleeve.

Tara looks up at you with her big eyes, and you don't know what to do. This is the first time the girl has looked at you without rolling her eyes or looking away immediately.

"I'm sorry," she mutters.

You didn't know what to say, and continue walking with her by your side, so you don't fall too far behind from your friends. "It's okay," you mutter back looking straight ahead. 

You don't blame the girl for her behaviours.  Her traumas manifested into something difficult and she was making an attempt to be better. That's all that mattered to you. And maybe you were just too weak for the girl that you would let anything slide, but you were fine with that too. 

Tara smiles at you, happy that you weren't giving her a hard time. Happy that you understood what those two words she just told you encapsulates.

Suddenly she grabs you by your arm and holds it as you walk side by side.

Startled by her touch you look at her.

She smiles up at you, "It's easier for you to keep your eyes on me this way. No need for secret glances."

The first time had been a mistake. A heat-of-the-moment disaster fueled by too many drinks, too many lingering stares, too much loneliness you hadn't been willing to admit to yourself.

It was supposed to end there.

You were supposed to know better.

But mistakes didn't happen twice.

Mistakes didn't happen again and again, until you lost count of how many promises you'd broken between the spaces of her hands and your mouth.

You told yourself you were stronger than this. That whatever thin, breakable thing existed between you and Cairo could survive the bruises you both kept pressing into it. You had rules, boundaries — the kind built on tight smiles and jokes you didn't really mean. The kind that kept you safe, kept you from looking at her too long, from wanting too much.

But none of that had mattered, had it?

It never did, when it came to her.

One glance across the room. One stupid flicker of something too raw, too familiar. And then you were breathing her in like you were starved for it. Fingers twisting in her hair, pulling her closer before either of you could think. Her mouth trailing down your throat, finding every place she knew you were weakest. Clothes tugged at clumsily, buttons popping loose, jeans shoved halfway down legs before either of you even made it to the bed.

It was desperate. It was thoughtless. It was inevitable.

You couldn't even pretend you had a choice.

And now... now there was no taking it back.

You hated how easily it had happened.

You hated how easily it always happened.

The truth sat like a stone in your stomach: this wasn't just a mistake anymore. Mistakes didn't leave bruises shaped like promises on your neck. Mistakes didn't feel this good and this terrible at the same time.

You had crossed a line you couldn't uncross.

And somehow, Cairo had let you.

Maybe it had always been leading here.

Maybe you'd been pretending for too long that what you had with her was ever something clean, something safe.

It started small — like these things always do.

A hand on your back that lingered a second too long.

A look that held a little too much, turned away a little too late.

Jokes that slid too easily into flirting, into whispered words at crowded parties that made your skin flush and your heart ache in ways you refused to name.

You told yourself it was harmless.

You told yourself Cairo didn't mean anything by it.

But it was a slow kind of drowning — so slow you barely even noticed when the air ran out.

And then —

One night, it happened.

It was too late. Too dark.

Both of you too drunk on something more dangerous than alcohol — on loneliness, on wanting, on everything you were never supposed to admit.

She looked at you like she could see it all.

Like she wanted it all.

And you kissed her.

Or maybe she kissed you.

You couldn't even tell who moved first — just a messy clash of mouths and hands and need, as if the world had tilted and there was nowhere else to fall but into each other.

You remembered the way her fingers tangled in your shirt, how her mouth opened under yours like she was drowning too.

You remembered the heat of her skin against yours, the rough scrape of denim and the soft thud of the door slamming shut behind you.

You remembered the way she whispered your name like it meant something.

You remembered everything.

You hadn't meant for it to go that far.

You hadn't meant to let your hands slip under her clothes.

You hadn't meant to push her back onto the bed and follow, heart pounding so loud you swore she could hear it.

But she didn't stop you.

She pulled you closer.

And once you felt her like that — warm and real and shivering under your touch — there was no going back.

It wasn't careful.

It wasn't slow.

It was desperate. Breathless. Almost angry with how much you wanted it.

How much you wanted her.

You tried to tell yourself it didn't mean anything.

Tried to believe it was just one mistake, a stupid, drunken accident.

But the way she clung to you in the dark — the way you buried your face in the curve of her neck like you could hide there — it said everything neither of you dared to speak.

And it didn't stop with that night.

Every glance, every brush of fingers, every tight, breathless moment where you should've pulled away — you both leaned in instead.

Again and again, like moths burning themselves on the same flame.

It wasn't casual.

It wasn't simple.

It was Cairo, and it was you, and it was everything you were too scared to say out loud.

And now... here you were again.

The same bed.

The same ache under your ribs.

And this time, you knew better.

This time, you couldn't pretend it didn't mean something.

Not when it was tearing you apart.

It had always been like this.

Every time she touched you — even when it was soft, even when it was barely there — it wrecked you.

There was no difference anymore between gentle and cruel.

Her fingers in your hair, her mouth against your skin, the way she used to smile into your neck when she thought you were asleep — all of it felt like knives now.

You told yourself it was nothing.

You told yourself it didn't mean anything.

You had to.

Because otherwise, you would've broken apart months ago.

You shut your eyes against the memory — against all the memories — but it didn't matter. They lived under your skin now.

The way she'd used to look at you like you were something more, like she wanted you just as much — it was all fake. Or maybe it wasn't. You didn't know anymore, and maybe that was worse.

You shifted on the mattress, kicking the covers down as quietly as you could, trying not to brush against her.

You couldn't take even that.

Not tonight.

But even without touching her, you could still feel her.

Cairo's arm was thrown loosely across the space between you, her breathing slow and easy like this was just another night, just another mistake you could both pretend never happened.

Her fingers twitched once against the sheets — reaching for you in her sleep — and your heart stuttered so hard it hurt.

You stared up at the ceiling, your throat closing around a breath you couldn't take.

How could she be so close — warm and real and right there — and still feel like she was slipping away?

How could you lie in the same bed and feel miles apart?

You swallowed hard, blinking fast against the burn behind your eyes.

You weren't supposed to care.

You weren't supposed to care.

But you did.

You always had.

Even when you knew better.

Even when Cairo made it so easy to pretend.

You weren't dating.

You never were.

That line had stayed drawn in the sand from the beginning — messy, blurred at the edges, but never crossed.

Not officially.

Because that would mean admitting it meant something.

And neither of you had the guts for that.

So instead, you had this — these nights that started with too many drinks, too many looks across crowded rooms, too many almosts that broke down into this.

Fingers tangled in each other's clothes.

Mouths finding mouths like it was inevitable.

Her hands on your body like she had every right to touch you.

And you always let her.

You always let her.

Maybe because it was easier than hearing her say it didn't mean anything.

Maybe because, for a few minutes, it was possible to believe she wanted you the way you wanted her.

Maybe because you were stupid.

Or selfish.

Or both.

You told yourself it was fine.

You told yourself it didn't have to hurt if you didn't let it.

But it did.

It always did.

And now — lying here beside her, feeling the heat of her body and the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest — you realized it wasn't the touching that ruined you.

It was the silence after.

The way she never said anything.

The way you never asked her to.

You stared harder at the ceiling, willing yourself not to look at her.

Not to reach for her.

It wouldn't change anything.

It never had.

You knew that.

You knew it too well.

You had the proof carved into the walls of your memory — every careless word, every too-fast goodbye.

You remembered the first time it happened, how you stayed tangled together for hours afterward, pretending sleep would make it easier.

It hadn't.

You remembered the second time, when she'd pulled her jeans back on without meeting your eyes and said, "This doesn't change anything, right?"

And you'd nodded — because what else could you do?

Because you were too scared she'd leave for good if you said no.

You remembered every time after that — the way it got easier for her to walk away, and harder for you to pretend it didn't hurt.

Sometimes she'd be in such a rush you barely got a goodbye at all.

Other times, like that night at her place, she'd just roll over, tug the blanket higher around herself, and drift off to sleep — leaving you there in the dark, heart hammering, waiting for some kind of sign.

None ever came.

And eventually, you'd learned how to let yourself out.

Quiet.

Invisible.

Unwanted.

It should have been enough to make you stop.

It should have been enough to make you hate her.

But it wasn't.

Because somehow, despite everything — despite the thousand little ways she showed you it didn't mean anything — you kept letting her touch you like it did.

And she kept touching you like it didn't.

Now, the air between you was too warm, too heavy.

The sheets clung to your skin, still tangled halfway down your legs.

You could feel the weight of her beside you — Cairo, lying there like it didn't mean anything. Like this was just another mistake you were both going to pretend didn't happen.

Your eyes locked onto the ceiling, tracing the cracks, the faded lines in the paint — anywhere but her.

Because if you looked at her, you'd break.

Her fingers brushed your thigh absently, like a habit she didn't even realize she had.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

It wasn't fair. It was never fair.

You kicked the covers off with a quiet, frustrated shove, desperate to breathe, desperate to pull yourself out of the gravity of her.

The room was too hot.

Your heart was too loud.

You couldn't pretend anymore.

And when you finally did risk a glance at her, Cairo was already looking at you — head propped lazily on her hand, gaze unreadable, like she wasn't the one unraveling you from the inside out.

You were so weak for her.

You hated it.

You hated her for it.

But mostly, you hated yourself.

You hated how easy it had been — again.

How fast you crumbled the second she touched you.

How even now, lying in the wreckage of it, you wanted her to reach for you again.

Wanted something she was never going to give.

Beside you, Cairo shifted lazily, the mattress dipping under her weight.

You heard her let out a breath — almost a laugh — low and careless, like none of this meant anything at all.

"Guess we're not great at keepin' promises," she muttered, voice rough from sleep and amusement.

Your heart clenched so tight it hurt.

She said it like it was funny.

Like you were both in on some harmless little secret.

Like it hadn't been you who had to pick up the pieces every single time she slipped away without a second thought.

You forced a smile — a tight, broken thing — and nodded once without trusting yourself to speak.

The room suddenly felt too small.

The air too heavy.

The ceiling too far away.

You focused on the cracks spidering along the plaster, willing yourself not to say anything.

Willing yourself not to feel anything.

Cairo didn't notice — or maybe she did and just didn't care.

She stretched again, unbothered, yawning into her hand like this was just another morning after nothing important.

Then she was sitting up.

Pulling the blanket off like it wasn't tangled around the night before.

Like it didn't still smell like both of you.

Like it wasn't the only thing holding the moment together.

You didn't say anything.

Didn't move.

You watched as she stood and padded across the floor, bare feet soft against the cold hardwood.

She didn't even hesitate — just reached down, gathering up her clothes from where they were scattered like discarded evidence.

Her shirt was inside out, and she didn't fix it.

Her jeans were wrinkled, and she didn't care.

You stayed in bed.

You didn't ask her to stay.

You didn't ask what this meant.

You knew better by now.

You watched the way she tied her hair up messily with the elastic around her wrist. The way she glanced in the mirror, wiped at the corner of her mouth, and grabbed her phone from the nightstand.

And then — as if it were nothing — she looked back at you with that same half-smile she wore when you passed each other in the hallway.

The one that meant nothing, said nothing, asked nothing.

"See you at school," she said.

Like it hadn't just been this.

Like you didn't still feel her on your skin.

You didn't answer.

You just stared up at the ceiling again, blinking hard.

You listened to the door click shut behind her.

And that was it.

That was always it.

No goodbye. No pause. No after.

Just Cairo, walking out like she hadn't been in your bed, in your hands, in your mouth.

Like she hadn't touched you the way people only touch you when they mean it.

When they feel it.

You lay there, motionless, in the heavy quiet she left behind.

Trying to catch your breath without making a sound.

Trying not to fall apart just yet.

You hated that this wasn't the first time.

You hated that you knew what came next — the silence, the space, the way she'd pretend none of this ever happened.

The way you were expected to pretend with her.

To sit across from her at lunch.

To text like everything was fine.

To hear her laugh and not remember what her breath sounded like when she was pressed against your neck.

And maybe what hurt the most wasn't that it kept happening.

It was that nothing ever changed.

You gave her everything. And she kept walking away.

Like you were just a mistake she was used to making.

It was cruel, in a way. The way she made it look so easy. How she could walk away, fix her shirt, toss her hair back into place like none of it ever mattered.

Like she hadn't just touched you like that.

Like she hadn't just ruined you all over again.

You sat there too long after she left. The air still warm with her in it. The bed still dented in the shape of her. You hadn't even touched the other side of the mattress. Hadn't even moved, not really—except for pulling the covers over your chest like it might hide the ache in your ribs.

You didn't understand how she did it.

How she kept coming back and pretending it didn't mean anything.

How you kept letting her.

Because you had meant it. Every time. Even the first.

Even when you told yourself you didn't.

And what made it worse—what made it sting—was knowing there was a time she used to pretend too. Not that it meant nothing, but that it meant less. Before she got good at hiding it. Before she stopped pretending at all.

You remembered it.

Last December.

You'd fallen asleep on her couch—half by accident, half by design. Cairo's head had ended up resting against your chest, one arm slung across your stomach. The room had been dark and warm, the silence broken only by the soft hum of her breathing. You didn't dare move. You were scared even one shift, one breath too deep, would wake her up and end it. You'd never felt so still in your life.

You weren't together. Not really. But that night you thought maybe—just maybe—she felt it too.

That maybe she wanted to feel it.

But the next morning, she'd barely looked at you. Just mumbled something about how "this was getting too messy," and said it was probably smart to take a step back. She'd said it like it was about you, like she was doing you a favor.

And the worst part?

You'd agreed. You'd nodded, even smiled, like it made sense.

Like it didn't already feel like something was cracking open inside you.

That was before all the promises. Before all the "let's not do this again" and "we're better off as friends."

Before she stopped bothering with excuses altogether.

Now it was just this—

Sex, silence, and a door closing behind her.

And somehow you were expected to act like you could still be friends.

Like she hadn't just laid her hands on your skin and then left you with nothing but the weight of it.

You were friends—or that's what you told people, what you told each other. You'd run out of ways to explain what it was between you, and even more reasons to keep trying.

But you weren't friends when she touched you like that.

Not when her mouth was on your skin and her hands were in your hair.

And now, as the heat faded from your body and the silence came crawling back in, you couldn't help but think:

How were you supposed to look at her tomorrow and pretend this didn't happen?

How could you both go back to acting like friends when you'd just shared a bed?

You wanted to ask her how.

How she could act like you were just someone she used to know.

How she could get dressed and say "see you at school" like she hadn't just pulled you apart with her mouth.

But you never did.

You just watched the door.

And let it all sit there inside you, heavy and sharp and endless.

School made it worse.

Because there she was—everywhere.

In the hallways, at your lunch table, slipping into the seat next to you in class like her skin hadn't been against yours just nights ago.

You thought it would get easier once you were around other people, once the world was louder. But it didn't drown anything out. If anything, it amplified it. Every laugh she gave someone else stung like it was meant for you. Every time she leaned too close to someone that wasn't you, your chest ached with something you couldn't name without sounding pathetic.

And the worst part?

She didn't even seem affected.

She smiled like she always had. Nudged your shoulder in group conversations. Said "hey" in passing, as if your mouth hadn't been on hers. As if she hadn't broken you open and walked away like it was nothing.

You started to wonder if that's all it ever was for her—nothing.

And maybe that thought would've hurt less if it hadn't happened so many times before.

Now, at school, it was like none of it had ever happened.

You saw her the next morning—before first period, outside the science wing, laughing at something someone else said. You weren't close enough to hear it, but you still felt it land in your chest like a bruise.

She looked at you once. Briefly. Like she was just checking to see if you were there.

And maybe you were reading into it—but that glance, that stupid, fleeting glance, felt like it meant something.

Like she remembered.

Like it had happened.

But then she looked away.

Tied her hair up. Smiled at someone else.

So maybe it didn't.

It was like that now—constant whiplash.

One second, you thought maybe she was hurting too.

The next, she was making jokes in class, passing you a pen, tapping her foot against yours under the desk like she'd forgotten everything but your presence.

And somehow that was worse.

Because even in the silence, even in the pretending, she was still there.

Not gone. Not distant. Not doing the decent thing and staying the hell away.

She was in your space.

Touching your elbow by accident. Brushing past you in the halls.

Acting like nothing had changed, and maybe it hadn't—for her.

But you were holding it all in your chest like a secret that wouldn't stop screaming.

So you smiled.

You walked the halls like your heart wasn't splitting open with every step.

You laughed when your friends made jokes, nodded through every conversation like your skin wasn't still buzzing with the memory of her mouth.

Because what else were you supposed to do?

You'd made the same mistake again and again and again. You'd laid yourself out for her, let her touch you like it meant something—knowing it didn't.

Not to her.

Not in the way it did to you.

So now you pretended.

Pretended you didn't still feel it in your stomach when you heard her voice behind you.

Pretended her hand brushing yours didn't feel like setting off a fire alarm in your bloodstream.

Pretended her laugh didn't echo in your chest like it used to, when she'd only ever laughed for you.

And Cairo made it easy—too easy.

She smiled at you the same way she did at everyone else.

Tossed you casual glances in class, shared her charger, borrowed your hoodie when she forgot hers and gave it back without a word.

Like you were still friends.

Like it was fine.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Because on the outside, everything looked fine.

You were back to being friends.

You sat beside her at lunch sometimes. You answered her texts. You nodded when she talked about stupid movies or new music or the things she wanted to do after graduation.

But none of it felt real anymore.

Not when you still remembered what her breath sounded like in the dark.

Not when her hands had just been on your skin and now acted like they'd never touched you.

You kept waiting for her to say something.

Anything.

To admit that maybe it wasn't just sex. That maybe she felt something.

But Cairo never did.

And you didn't ask.

Because if you did—if you really asked—you were scared of what the answer would be.

So you swallowed it all down.

Carried it through the hallways, through classes, through every moment where she was close enough to touch.

You forced yourself to smile when you passed her.

Pretended that your laughter didn't feel hollow in your throat.

You told yourself that it was fine—this was fine.

You could handle it.

It didn't matter if you were coming undone inside.

But every time you caught her eye—every time she looked at you like nothing had happened—

You felt that split right down the center of your chest.

The one you kept telling yourself wasn't there.

And maybe that was why—somewhere under the weight of all the pretending—you felt the pull of anything that might let you forget.

Anything to drown out the memory of her hands on your skin and the way she always left.

And maybe that was why—somewhere under the weight of all the pretending—you felt the pull of anything that might let you forget.

Anything to drown out the memory of her hands on your skin and the way she always left.

It was easier to think about something else—anything else—than the way she could still look at you in the hallway like you were nothing.

So when you heard about the party—just some kid's basement, music too loud and lights too low—it felt like a lifeline.

Parties didn't happen often here. Not in this little Massachusetts town where the most excitement you got was the annual pumpkin festival or Friday night football games.

You knew Cairo wouldn't be there—she was never the party type. She'd rather be home with a book, or tucked away in some secondhand theater watching operas you couldn't even pronounce.

You'd always tried to notice things about her like that.

Every quiet detail that made her who she was—how she liked her coffee black, how she hated the way people chewed with their mouths open, how she'd dog-ear pages when she was too tired to find a bookmark.

And she... she never seemed to notice anything about you at all.

Never paused to take in the way you went quiet when you were upset. Never looked close enough to see how hard you were holding yourself together.

It was like she could be everywhere with you—skin to skin, breath to breath—and still not see a single piece of you.

Maybe that was why the party felt like an escape.

A chance to be seen—just once, by anyone else.

A chance to stop being the girl who always let Cairo come and go like you were nothing.

Fridays always felt like a small mercy.

You and Cairo didn't share many classes, which meant you didn't have to see her face so much.

Didn't have to watch her slip back into the ease of her laughter with other people while you were still stuck on the memory of her mouth on your skin.

On Fridays, you could almost pretend you were okay.

Almost pretend you hadn't spent another week feeling like a ghost in your own life.

So you went home that afternoon telling yourself it didn't matter.

You went home telling yourself you'd find something—anything—to fill the hollow she left behind.

You didn't want to think too hard about what you were doing.

You showered quickly, put on a top that felt like a shield and a smile that didn't feel like yours.

Told yourself that if you looked good enough—carefree enough—it wouldn't hurt so much.

The sun was already setting when you left.

And you kept telling yourself this was what you needed:

A night away from Cairo.

A night away from your own head.

The party wasn't far—you could walk there in under twenty minutes if you cut through the old mill road. So that's what you did. The evening air was already starting to cool down, but you didn't mind. You wrapped your jacket around yourself and tried not to think about how every step felt like running away.

When you turned the last corner, you could see the glow of lights spilling from a house that was bigger than most in town—one of those places that looked like it had been built to be impressive, not lived in. You could hear music thrumming from the backyard, the low bass beat carrying down the street.

It looked almost like Cairo's house in some ways—expensive siding, the kind of driveway that could fit more cars than your whole family owned. It made your stomach twist to see it, but you swallowed that down and kept walking.

Inside, it was exactly what you expected: too many people crammed into too small a space, loud voices and laughter echoing off marble countertops and polished wood floors. Someone was already mixing drinks in the kitchen, red solo cups lined up in neat rows like they'd been waiting for this all week.

You didn't know most of the people here. Didn't care to. That was the point, wasn't it? No one knew you either—no one who would see the way your hands kept trembling when you reached for your drink.

You found a corner to lean against and took it all in.

The way the music pulsed through the walls.

The way everyone seemed so sure of themselves—like none of this mattered.

You wanted to feel that too.

You wanted to stop feeling like you were always carrying Cairo's ghost with you.

And for a little while, you did.

You let yourself drink more than you usually would—some cheap beer that tasted like nothing, and something sweeter, sticky on your tongue.

You let the music be loud enough to swallow your thoughts, let yourself lean into the blur of it all.

You laughed too hard at jokes you barely heard, your voice a little too bright, your eyes a little too glassy.

And you danced with Winnie for a while, letting her pull you into that easy rhythm, the two of you moving in circles that felt almost real.

It felt like the past couldn't catch up to you here—like the house was too crowded, too alive for any ghosts to linger.

For a while, it worked.

The drinks made it easy to forget—made it warm and soft and almost fun.

Like maybe, if you let yourself pretend hard enough, you could stop feeling like every breath you took had her name in it.

But then you saw her.

It was just a glimpse at first—her face half-lit by the kitchen lights, her hair pulled back in a way that made her look too casual for this place.

She was holding a drink, talking to someone you didn't know.

And you almost didn't believe it.

You blinked, your vision blurring at the edges, and told yourself it was the alcohol, the noise, your mind trying to fill in the spaces she always left behind.

But it wasn't.

She was really there.

You could feel it in the way your stomach dropped, in the way the music seemed to fade out around you.

Because of course she would be here—because you could never have anything for yourself that didn't turn back into her, that didn't somehow lead back to Cairo.

For a second, you thought maybe she hadn't noticed you.

Maybe you could slip away, find another corner of the party where she couldn't follow.

But then her eyes found yours across the room.

It was just a moment—one heartbeat, maybe two—before she looked away.

But in that moment, you saw it: the flicker of surprise, the way her shoulders stiffened, the way her mouth parted like she had something to say.

And then it was gone.

She turned back to her conversation, and you were left with the echo of it in your chest.

That familiar, hollow twist—like the world was folding in on itself and the only thing left was her.

Like you'd spent all night trying to forget her, only to end up right back at the start.

It hit you in a way you didn't expect.

Not loud, not sharp.

Just this slow, sinking thing that crept in under your skin — like gravity shifting sideways, like the floor tilting just enough to throw everything off balance.

Because she was still across the room.

Still talking.

Still smiling.

And that was what did it, really.

Not the shock of seeing her. Not even the way she'd looked away like it didn't matter.

But how easy she made it seem.

Like she hadn't once curled up beside you in the dark.

Like she hadn't once kissed you like she meant it, like she knew you.

Like none of it — none of you — had left a mark at all.

She laughed at something someone said, tossing her head back the way you used to love watching.

You remembered that laugh.

You remembered the sound of it against your neck, your shoulder, your throat.

And now it was out here, scattered across the room for anyone to take.

It gutted you.

Because she didn't look broken.

She didn't look haunted.

She didn't even look uncomfortable.

She looked like she belonged here.

Like this night was just another night.

Like you were the only one pretending it meant nothing.

You didn't even realize you'd stopped breathing until the room blurred again, your chest so tight it almost hurt.

And you couldn't stop looking at her — not because you wanted to, but because something in you needed to understand.

Needed to know how she did it.

How she could erase you so cleanly.

And God, you hated it — the way your hands started shaking again, the way your throat burned.

Not from the drinks.

From her.

From the way she made you feel like a ghost in your own story.

You were supposed to be forgetting.

You were supposed to be moving on.

But instead, you were standing in some stranger's house, surrounded by people who didn't know what you used to be, and watching her pretend like she'd never touched you at all.

Like she'd never looked at you the way she was now looking at them.

And maybe you should've walked away.

Maybe you should've turned around and left.

But your feet didn't move.

Because some small, wrecked part of you still hoped she'd look back.

Still hoped she'd remember.

Not the version of you that was standing there now — with your drink in hand and your chest caving in — but the one she used to reach for when no one was looking.

The one she kissed like a secret.

The one she held like a habit she couldn't quit.

But Cairo didn't look back.

She didn't glance over her shoulder.

She didn't shift or stiffen or blink like she remembered anything at all.

She just kept talking, kept smiling. Like you were nobody. Like you'd always been nobody.

And you tried—God, you tried—to convince yourself that it didn't mean anything.

That maybe she was just good at hiding things.

That maybe this was hard for her too.

But the truth was right in front of you.

She didn't look wrecked.

She didn't look like someone who'd shared a bed with you five nights ago.

Or kissed you in your kitchen like she couldn't help herself.

Or left before morning like none of it meant anything.

She looked like someone who'd never known you.

And that was what undid you.

Because you couldn't understand how she could wear her detachment like perfume — easy, invisible, soft.

While you were here swallowing it all down, trying not to look like someone who was breaking apart in real time.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to shake her, ask her how she could stand there and treat you like any other girl at the party.

How she could act like nothing ever happened — like you weren't still carrying pieces of her inside you that didn't even belong to you anymore.

You didn't.

You just stood there, watching her laugh with someone else.

Feeling like the only person in the room still bleeding from something no one else could see.

But it started building — quietly, then all at once.

Like your thoughts had teeth.

Like they were gnawing straight through you.

You weren't sure if it was the alcohol making everything feel louder, or if this had always been inside you, waiting for a moment like this to finally come undone.

Because how could she stand there and let it all go so easily?

How could you be the one still clinging to every look, every half-spoken word, still trying to stitch some meaning into it — while she didn't even flinch?

You were holding on too tightly.

To things she dropped the second they got too heavy.

To touches that meant nothing to her the morning after.

To a connection that felt real only because you needed it to be.

You kept telling yourself you were just going to get some air.

That it wasn't Cairo — it wasn't the way her laughter curled in your gut or the way she leaned toward someone else like her body had never even touched yours.

But you couldn't lie to yourself anymore.

Not tonight.

Not when it all finally cracked open inside your chest.

So you walked — fast, almost stumbling — out through the crowded living room, past the half-drunk boy who tried to hand you something, past Winnie's voice calling after you.

You didn't stop. You couldn't.

The door slammed behind you like punctuation.

And the cold slapped you hard across the face the second you stepped out.

And for a second — just a second — everything went still.

The muffled bass of the party thudded through the walls.

The night air bit into your skin, sharp and sobering.

But it was better than standing in there pretending you didn't feel like you were drowning.

And maybe that's why, just before the door clicked shut behind you, Cairo turned.

Like she'd only just realized you were gone.

Like your sudden absence broke the rhythm of her pretending.

But you didn't wait to see if she'd follow.

You just kept walking.

Because something in you was finally too tired —

Too raw —

To keep bleeding quietly.

You stepped off the porch like your legs barely belonged to you.

The night felt colder now — like it had teeth, like even the air wanted to bite down.

You found yourself on the front steps, sitting on the edge of them like you weren't sure whether you were about to leave or collapse right there.

The cement was rough beneath your hands, still holding some of the day's warmth but not enough to matter.

The street stretched quiet in front of you, interrupted only by the occasional blur of headlights passing by, slicing gold through the dark.

Somewhere across the yard, a guy was bent over in the bushes, retching like his body had given up on him too.

Further down the drive, a small group of older boys stood in a half-circle by the curb, smoking cigarettes like they had nowhere better to be. Their laughter was low and tired, curling into the cold.

But besides that, the world was quiet.

Or at least quieter than inside.

Here, things didn't spin as fast.

You exhaled slowly and felt the breath leave you like something you hadn't meant to let go.

It all felt so heavy.

Like your ribs were too tight around your lungs.

Like the ache in your chest wasn't just about her — but about everything she'd taken from you without even knowing it.

Or maybe she did know.

Maybe that was the worst part.

The concrete beneath you.

The dark sky above you.

It all made you feel small in a way that was both calming and unbearable.

Like you could disappear out here and no one would notice.

Like maybe that would be a relief.

You pressed your palms to your knees, stared out at the road, and tried not to think about the way her eyes had not searched for you.

About how easy it was for her to stay inside.

To keep laughing.

To keep pretending none of it mattered.

But you couldn't do that.

You never could.

Not with her.

You stayed there on the steps, elbows balanced on your knees, your fingers picking absently at the skin around your nails. You weren't sure how long you'd been sitting there. The chill had started to settle in your arms, but you didn't move. Didn't think. You just were. Hollow and still and almost quiet inside.

Until the door opened behind you.

It was soft — not loud enough to startle you, just a hush of movement and muffled bass leaking out for half a second before it clicked shut again. You didn't look. Probably just someone stepping out for a smoke, maybe heading home. You didn't care. Not anymore.

But then there were footsteps.

Light ones.

Measured.

You didn't turn around, not at first. Just stared out at the road, your eyes glazed and dry.

And then, in your peripheral, a shape.

Familiar somehow.

Slow-moving.

You blinked and your chest went tight.

Because for a second, you didn't think it was her.

Didn't want to believe it was her.

Your brain reached for excuses — someone with the same hair, maybe, the same walk, the same frame…

But no.

You knew.

Even out here, even half-lit by streetlights and a sliver of moon.

It was Cairo.

She stepped closer, and you heard the gravel shift under her boots.

Heard her hesitate.

And still, you didn't move.

Because after everything — all the pretending, all the disappearing — she had followed you.

And somehow, that didn't feel like enough.

Not anymore.

She stood behind you, not too close, not too far.

The kind of distance that said I'm here, but also I don't know what I'm doing.

You didn't turn.

Didn't need to.

You could feel her.

Cairo had always been bad at standing still. She shifted her weight once, then again. The gravel crunched softly under her shoes — not the kind of party heels most girls wore, but boots, like always.

You imagined her glancing down at the steps and hesitating.

She probably didn't want to sit.

The skirt she was wearing — the pale one she only wore when everything else was in the wash — was probably still damp at the hem.

She'd waited too long to do laundry, as usual.

Didn't think things through unless she had to.

And yet she'd shown up tonight.

You could feel her watching the side of your face. Probably waiting for you to make it easy.

She was never good at starting things with you.

Not real things.

Maybe she was hoping you'd look over your shoulder and say something stupid and casual — "didn't expect to see you" or "some party, huh?"

Something she could step into.

But you didn't.

Because you knew how it would go if you did.

You knew how easily your mouth would forget everything your heart remembered.

You could smell her before you heard her breathe.

That same mix of coconut and vanilla clinging to her skin — subtle, warm, the kind that made you ache.

And underneath it: smoke.

Always the smoke.

She never lit her own cigarettes, just borrowed other people's and forgot to return them.

And still, you didn't look.

Because if you did, it'd all slip again.

The hurt, the distance, the last scraps of dignity you were trying so hard to hold onto.

You stared at the road instead.

And pretended you couldn't feel her ruining you all over again, just by being there.

You hoped she'd give up eventually.

That she'd take the hint — realize you didn't want this. Not right now.

Not like this.

You hoped she'd sigh or roll her eyes or check her phone and walk away, back inside where it was loud and warm and easier to pretend.

But she didn't.

She just stood there.

Fidgeting, like she was working through some equation in her head. Like if she got the words in the right order, maybe you'd stop freezing her out.

Her fingers picked at the edge of her sleeve, slow and nervous — Cairo's version of pacing.

And then finally, quietly, like it was something she'd been holding onto for too long, she spoke.

"It's pretty cold out here... shouldn't you head inside?"

Her accent wrapped around the words soft and hesitant, and she tilted her head like maybe that would make her seem more sincere.

Like maybe if she sounded gentle enough, you wouldn't notice how fake it felt.

You almost laughed.

Almost scoffed.

Because really?

Now she cared if you were cold?

She never cared about that.

She never cared if your fingers went numb walking home.

She never cared if you were shivering beside her when she opened the window in her room just because she liked the sound of rain.

She never cared about what you felt unless it had something to do with her.

But you swallowed it down.

That sharp little spike of bitterness that wanted to slip out and cut her.

"No thanks," you said instead, your voice low, a little thick from the cold.

Your nose was starting to sting — just enough to make it hard to talk like you weren't feeling anything at all.

You sniffled once, sharp and quick.

"But you do that."

You didn't say it cruelly.

Didn't snap.

You just let it sit there — soft but pointed, like something closing a door without slamming it.

She didn't say anything back.

And you still didn't look.

Because if you did, you weren't sure what you'd see.

And you weren't ready to see it.

Not yet.

The silence that followed stretched thin and awkward, the kind that made your skin itch.

Cairo didn't say anything.

Didn't move at first.

She just stood there like she was trying to solve a puzzle with no right answer — like she hadn't expected this version of you.

One that didn't fold the second she opened her mouth.

One that didn't give her softness just because she asked for it.

She was used to being chased.

To getting the last word.

To people falling all over themselves to hear what she had to say — but you didn't look at her.

You didn't give her that.

And it must've thrown her off.

Because she shifted her weight, arms folding over her chest.

Then unfolded them again.

Then looked down at her shoes, like maybe she was thinking of leaving — turning around, heading back inside, forgetting this ever happened.

And for a second, you thought she would.

You wanted her to.

Sort of.

But she didn't.

She just hovered there, her hesitation loud in the air between you.

You didn't notice her watching you — not at first.

But something in the way the silence held started to feel different.

Not cold anymore. Not distant.

Like it wasn't just indecision that kept her standing there.

And even though your eyes were still on the street, some part of you knew.

Knew she was looking at you — not with the sharp edge she usually had, but with something else.

Softer. Quieter.

Something almost like... admiration.

You didn't turn to check.

You didn't want to.

And then, finally, her voice again — quieter this time.

Careful. Almost gentle.

"You look very pretty tonight."

Like she meant it.

Like it was a secret.

Like saying it any louder would break something between you.

And maybe that should've meant something.

Maybe a part of you — a softer, dumber part — wanted it to.

But instead, it just made your throat tighten.

Because of course she was doing this.

Of course she waited until you were at your worst — outside, alone, unraveling — to say something sweet.

She always did this. Always showed up just late enough to make it hurt more.

Weeks of silence.

Months, even.

Ignoring you like you hadn't shared her bed, her secrets, her goddamn heart.

And then she'd show up again, all slow blinks and honeyed words.

"You know I can't sleep right without you."

"I missed the sound of your voice."

"I kept your hoodie, is that weird?"

Like that was enough.

Like those sentences could hold together the wreckage she always left you in.

And every time, you let her.

Every single time, you let her tilt her head and smile and pull you right back into her orbit.

You hated it.

You hated yourself for it.

And you were so, so tired.

Maybe it was the alcohol — sharp behind your teeth and fogging your head — or maybe it was just the weight of too many endings pretending to be beginnings.

Either way, something snapped.

You shot up from the steps, sudden and stiff, brushing your palms on your thighs like that could wipe off the ache.

"I have to go," you said quickly, voice tight.

You didn't wait for her to ask where.

Didn't wait to see if her face fell or stayed smug or even surprised.

"I have to use the bathroom," you added under your breath, like it explained anything.

Like you weren't already turning away, walking fast, fast, fast toward the edge of whatever this had become — toward the only escape you had left.

Away from her.

Before she made you stay.

Before she made you want to.

You didn't mean to brush so close.

But as you stepped past her—barely a centimeter between your shoulder and hers—it was enough.

Enough for her to react like you'd tugged something out of her.

Like leaving was something she physically couldn't let you do.

"Y/n, wait—"

Her voice cracked, louder than she meant it to be, tangled with something too desperate, too raw.

You saw her foot shift forward, heard the scrape of her heel against concrete.

And then her hand—warm, trembling—closed around your wrist.

Her fingers were soft, familiar, like they still remembered how to hold you.

Like they hadn't forgotten.

You refused to look at her.

Even when her body tilted toward yours, even when her other hand lifted slightly—reaching for something in the space between you two.

Her mouth opened.

"I—"

"No."

Your voice was low, almost a whisper.

But it stopped her.

You pulled your arm out of her grip, sharp and quick like it burned.

"Cairo, please stop doing this."

It hung there between you—quiet but undeniable.

A plea, a boundary, a crack in the spine of every story you'd lived with her.

Because you couldn't do it again.

Couldn't let her start something she'd never finish.

Not when you already knew the ending.

Not when you'd lived it too many times.

Cairo had the stomach to look confused.

Like you hadn't just laid yourself bare in front of her. Like she didn't know exactly what she was doing.

"Doing what?" she asked, voice light, cautious—almost innocent.

But her eyes flickered.

You caught it.

That flicker of guilt or recognition or whatever it was—quick, like she didn't mean to let it show.

You almost laughed.

Because she knew what you meant.

She always knew.

You meant the way she only ever looked at you like that when no one else was around.

The way her voice softened, the way her compliments curled around you like smoke, sweet and slow—but only when it was just the two of you.

You meant how you were only enough when no one was watching.

How she never touched you in public.

How she never said your name like it meant something unless it was in the dark, when her body was pressed against yours and her lips were on your shoulder and she didn't have to pretend.

You meant this.

Her chasing you down just to give you almost.

To say something tender and break you open, and then leave you bleeding while she walked away clean.

Like always.

You didn't say any of that out loud.

But your eyes did.

Your silence did.

And you watched her shrink beneath it.

But your eyes did.

Your silence did.

And you watched her shrink beneath it.

You didn't mean to say anything.

You really didn't.

But the words started spilling out before you could stop them—low and uneven, like your voice didn't know what tone to take.

"You know exactly what I mean."

She blinked, and something flickered again in her face—like she wanted to deny it, like she wanted to play dumb. But you didn't let her.

"You're fine being around me when no one's watching. When it's just us. You can say all the pretty things then, right? You can touch me, kiss me, sleep in my bed, tell me you missed me—like it's nothing. But the second we're around other people, it's like I don't exist. Like you don't know me. And now you're out here acting like—like I'm the one who's being cold?"

Your voice cracked at that.

Your breath caught in your throat, and your hands clenched at your sides like maybe that would hold everything else in.

She didn't say anything.

Of course she didn't.

So you kept going, voice rising just enough to make it worse.

"I can't keep doing this with you, Cairo. I can't. I can't go back to being just your friend, or your maybe, or your secret. I can't sit next to you at some party and pretend like we didn't share a bed, like I don't still feel you on me every time I try to sleep."

You didn't mean to let your eyes sting.

Didn't mean for your throat to tighten like that.

But it was too much.

And somehow, what made it worse was how stupid it felt to even have to say this.

Like this wasn't obvious. Like she hadn't been doing it over and over again.

Your voice wavered, but you didn't stop.

"You keep doing this to me. You disappear, and then you come back and say one thing—just one fucking thing—and I fall for it. Every time. You say I look pretty, or that you miss me, or that you didn't mean to stay away, and I believe you. And then what? You leave again. Like none of it ever mattered."

You laughed, dry and bitter and tired.

"I'm done, I can't do it again. I can't."

And then it was quiet.

Not because there was nothing left to say, but because saying it out loud already felt like too much.

Like you'd peeled something raw open between you, and it was all just sitting there now—too exposed, too ugly, too real.

You were trembling now, not from the cold but from everything she made feel like too much. Your hands, your chest, your thoughts—none of it felt yours anymore. And still, she hadn't said anything.

So you gave her one last look. Not kind. Not cruel. Just done.

"And I can't pretend we're strangers," you said, quieter now but somehow heavier than before. "Even though you seem perfectly fucking fine with it."

And with that, you turned.

You started walking toward the door, not fast, not dramatic—just steady. The porch light buzzed softly above you, and the house hummed with music and voices muffled by the walls. The party you'd almost forgotten was still happening.

You got close to the door, close enough that the tip of your fingers grazed the handle, metal cold under your skin.

And behind you, you could hear Cairo trying to find words—her breath hitching just enough to give her away. You could picture it without turning: her brow furrowed like she was concentrating too hard, her mouth opening like it always did when she was about to say something that never came.

"Y/n—"

Then nothing.

Then again. "Wait—"

Still nothing.

And just when your fingers curled around the doorknob—

"I love you."

You froze.

It wasn't loud.

It wasn't confident.

She said it like it was her last card, like she wasn't sure it was even worth playing. Like if she didn't say it now, she never would.

And it hit you in a way nothing else had.

Like the one thing you'd wanted to hear, and the last thing you could stand to.

You didn't turn around yet.

You just stood there.

Fingers still on the door.

Heart in your throat.

It echoed in your head—I love you.

Too soft to be real. Too cruel to be fair.

And then, slowly, you turned.

Your eyebrows pulled together before you even realized they had, confusion etched deep into your face. You stared at her like she'd just said something in a language you didn't speak. Or like she'd ripped open a wound you didn't know was still bleeding.

"What?" You breathed it out, sharp, almost spat it.

Because people don't do this.

They don't ignore you for weeks. They don't flirt with other people, disappear into crowds, pretend not to know you in rooms filled with mutual friends—and then say that.

People don't destroy you and then tell you they love you.

Not unless they mean to ruin you.

But Cairo just stood there.

And it was like watching someone realize they'd said the one thing they weren't supposed to. Her shoulders dropped just slightly, her hands fidgeting at her sides. She looked like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

Her eyes flicked to yours, then down, then up again—scared.

Not of you, but of what you might say next.

She looked nervous.

She looked nervous.

And maybe it was the expression on your face—the anger she wasn't used to seeing. Because you'd never looked at her like this before. Never let her see the damage. The frustration. The disbelief. You'd always swallowed it down, tried to stay soft even when she made you feel cold.

But not now.

Now you were just angry.

Because your chest fluttered at her words—still.

Because of course she'd said the one thing you'd always wanted to hear, just when you were ready to walk away.

Because it worked. It always worked.

And that was exactly why you hated it.

Because it still meant something.

And that felt like the worst part.

There was a long pause. You didn't fill it.

You just stood there, still halfway turned toward the door, waiting to see if she'd even try to explain.

For a second, you were sure she wouldn't.

But then Cairo took a step forward, slow, like the ground might split if she moved too fast.

"I didn't..." she started, then stopped. Her jaw tightened as she looked past you, toward the road. Like maybe the words would come easier if she didn't have to see your face. "I didn't think you'd—God, I didn't think this would get so..."

She shook her head. Not at you — at herself.

Then her hand came up to her forehead, brushing her bangs back like that might help her think clearer.

"I didn't mean to—" she tried again, voice soft, almost choked. "It's not like I wanted to lose you. I just... I didn't know what to do with you."

She laughed—barely. A quiet, breathy, humorless thing.

Her shoulders hunched in a little, like she hated even hearing herself say it.

"It was easier to pretend we were just messing around. Easier than... admitting it was more than that."

You stared at her, but she still didn't meet your eyes.

She was fidgeting again—wringing her hands, rubbing the back of her neck, shifting her weight like standing still made her restless.

"I mean, I knew, okay?" she finally said, a little louder, a little more desperate now. "I knew what I was doing when I pulled away. When I acted like it didn't matter. It's just—if I let it matter, I had to believe it could actually work. And I didn't want to believe that."

That made you flinch. Just a little.

Cairo noticed.

She panicked at the look on your face—whatever it was.

"I didn't mean it like that," she rushed. "I mean—I did, but not because of you. I didn't trust me. I mess things up. That's what I do. I get too close and I ruin it, or it gets taken away. So I told myself it was better to just..."

Her voice trailed off.

She was talking with her hands now, gesturing vaguely like the words might somehow appear if she moved enough.

And it was weird — seeing her like that.

Cairo, who was usually so composed, so cold, so smart-mouthed and detached — now standing in front of you like someone scrambling for a lifeline.

"I didn't know how to have you and not lose you," she said finally. Quieter this time. "So I kept letting you go first."

You didn't say anything.

You couldn't.

Because part of you wanted to scream.

And part of you wanted to believe her.

She looked up finally.

Her eyes were glassy, but she blinked hard like she refused to cry in front of you. Her bottom lip tucked slightly between her teeth, and she took a half-step closer—like maybe if she was just a little nearer, you'd forgive her faster.

And still, she looked embarrassed to be saying all this.

Ashamed of how late it came.

Ashamed that it had to come like this.

Her voice dipped again, uneven now. "I know I made it look like it didn't matter. I know that. And I'm not saying that's fair. I just... I didn't know what else to do."

You turned slightly, only just—barely angling your body toward her. And maybe it gave her hope.

Because her eyes flicked up.

And then she kept going.

"I was scared. Not of you—just... of what it meant. Of how I felt. And I guess that sounds stupid now, but I didn't know it was gonna be you. I didn't think you'd—" she cut herself off, shaking her head again, teeth digging into her bottom lip.

Then her eyes flicked to yours for a second—like she was checking to see if you were listening.

You were.

Too much.

"But I liked you," she said suddenly, almost tripping over it. "I like you. Not just like... in that way. I liked you before I even realized what it was turning into."

You blinked, startled by how honest it sounded.

Cairo noticed your expression change—just slightly. Your eyebrows creased in a way she recognized, and it made her shift again, lean in a little.

"I liked the way you look at people when you think they're not watching," she said, still quiet, but now her voice trembled. "I liked that you never pretended to be something you weren't, even when everyone else was busy trying. You just... you were always there. Even when I didn't deserve it."

You hated that your heart thudded at that.

Because of course she would say something like that now.

Now that you were already halfway gone.

"And I know I'm not saying this right," she muttered quickly, hand curling into a loose fist at her side. "I always mess it up when it matters. But I meant it—what I said earlier. I do love you. I just didn't know how to show it. Not in a way that wouldn't fuck it all up."

Her voice cracked at the end of that. And she looked away fast, like if she didn't see your face, it wouldn't hurt so bad when you walked away.

She didn't realize you were still standing there.

Still facing her.

Still listening.

Even if your heart didn't know what to do with any of it.

You pursed your lips, slowly.

Not in frustration—just trying to process it all.

Her voice still echoed in your chest, repeating the things you'd waited too long to hear.

You didn't even know where to begin.

Because part of you wanted to believe her.

Wanted to let the warmth of her words settle into your ribs and undo the months of damage she'd done.

But the other part—

The part that had sat alone on the stairs, aching and cold—

It was still angry.

Still hurting.

And so, after a beat, you nodded once.

"Okay."

Cairo's expression faltered immediately.

Like the floor shifted beneath her feet.

"Okay?" she echoed, almost confused.

Her brows drew together slowly.

She blinked. "That's all you have to say?"

You nodded again. "Is there something else you wanted me to say?"

The silence that followed was thick and sharp, like the air between you had teeth.

Cairo's mouth parted, then shut. Her head tilted slightly—like she couldn't decide whether she was more shocked or offended.

She hadn't expected that.

Not from you.

Not after all that.

Because for once, you were the one pulling back.

And she wasn't used to that.

Not from you.

You looked at her for a moment longer—

At her still furrowed brows, the soft rise and fall of her chest, her fingers twitching like they didn't know what to do if they weren't touching you.

It would've been easier if she hadn't meant any of it.

If she'd just said all that to win. To manipulate.

But she hadn't.

You knew she hadn't.

And maybe that's why it hurt more.

You didn't even know what you were supposed to feel. Relief? Vindication? Anger?

It felt like all of it. All at once.

Because yeah, maybe you had needed to hear it.

Maybe a part of you had been begging for this moment for weeks.

But not like this.

Not after everything she put you through.

Not after all the times she made you feel stupid for hoping.

You ran a hand down your face, exhaling hard through your nose.

Your chest ached. Your throat stung. You hated how it all still mattered.

And maybe that's what finally pushed the words out of your mouth.

"You don't get to just say that and make it better, Cairo," you said, barely looking at her. "You don't get to say 'I love you' like it erases the rest."

She blinked—like she hadn't expected you to sound so calm.

You swallowed. "You keep doing this thing where you disappear. You come close just long enough to fuck with my head and then act like it never happened."

She flinched—just barely—but you saw it.

"And I always let you," you added, voice cracking. "Every time."

There was a long, quiet breath as Cairo stared at the ground, lips slightly parted like she wanted to interrupt but couldn't find where. You waited. You gave her the silence. And when she didn't take it, you filled it yourself.

"I can't keep doing this with you. I can't keep... feeling like a secret. Like I'm only good enough when no one else is around."

The words felt heavier now that they were out. More real.

You blinked a few times, fast, trying to push the burn out of your eyes.

You didn't mean for that one to come out so bitter. But it did.

And she felt it.

It landed like a bruise across her face — barely visible, but you knew.

Your chest tightened. Your hand drifted toward the doorknob again, fingers curling around cold metal.

"And if you're not ready to be honest about this—about us—" you paused, voice dropping, "then come back when you are."

You didn't look at her after that.

You didn't even give yourself the time to second-guess it.

You were just about to turn the handle—just about to walk away for real—

When you heard the quiet shuffle of footsteps behind you.

And before your mind could even register what was happening—

Her hands were on your cheeks.

Warm. Familiar. A little shaky.

You blinked in surprise as she pulled you down slightly—eyes darting over your face like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to do this—and then she kissed you.

Hard.

Not like the last time. Not like any of the times before.

There was no hesitation in it. No pretense. No half-truths.

Just Cairo, pressed against you like she was trying to make up for every single second she'd wasted not being here.

Her lips tasted like stale sugar, cheap wine, and cigarette smoke, and somehow that combination made your chest ache harder than anything else.

Her fingers twitched against your jaw, like she didn't know how to stop holding you.

And her mouth—

God, her mouth was saying everything she couldn't get out.

Sorry.

I mean it.

Don't leave.

Her thumbs trembled slightly where they pressed against your jaw.

Her mouth moved against yours like she thought she might never get to do it again.

And your heart—

It cracked open.

Because even if everything still hurt...

Even if none of this fixed what had already broken—

She was trying.

She was finally trying.

When she pulled back, her eyes searched yours, frantic and wet around the edges.

And she didn't say anything.

She didn't have to.

You rested your forehead against hers for a moment, just breathing.

Feeling the ache settle into something a little quieter.

Maybe it wasn't a fix.

Maybe it wasn't clean or easy.

But it was honest.

Danger walked among the crowd but it wasn’t just you. 

Boots thumping, jiggling chains, the flicker of a troublemaker in your eyes, but it wasn’t you. Yes, you could feel its tantalizing aura close but its source evaded your sharp eyes. A time for truth, anxiety trickling up the spines of every student that you witnessed down the hallway. Sizzling hot gossip dripping down their lips, sweetening the ear and barely giving a shit. The new face bothered them none, that is you, walking through the mass of moving bodies, slack and zombie-like, like it was everyday that they had a new schoolmate but not everyday that someone was coming back. All the vague anxiety of being new stripped away and tossed out the window, seeing that you weren’t as important as the newest-latest. 

“She’s coming back?”

“So I heard, dude.”

“After what happened?”

“Can she get Mr. Tyler expelled too? I’m tired of that mother–.”

Curiosity’s piqued but you can’t intrude, the mass of folks aren’t even staring at you. Condensed groups huddle close, like preventing information leaking, even though every mouth spoke the same damn thing. Who is back? Why’s that bad? You have no clue, not with your feet steady stomping through the hallways — passing by the custard colored lockers, awkward fashion sense and clean-cut boring teens. Your destination was fixed at the Principal’s office to be given your locker number, combination and class; shaping you to integrate to your new life, in this odd school. A gorgeously odd school that you knew must be ripe with sordid secrets, filled with tense heavy air that quaked the earth beneath you, dense atmosphere that only required a spark to set ablaze — like the flick of a switchblade to herald the coming chaos, or maybe a playful bump into someone with short temper to trigger total pandemonium.

Oh, but you couldn’t do that. In this new school you were set to behave, you must. 

Those were the same words you heard when you walked into the Principal’s office. Wooden and antiquated like the man behind the desk himself, old-school strictness and properness that almost felt cartoonish. You must not, under any circumstances, break the rules or you will be (without question) expelled.  You played your part, simply nodding and giving your word that you were going to do your best. All the while you crossed every finger of your body, living on the edge of sin and fueled by mischief alone. You were 19, held back once, and entirely remarkable, with no record but just behavioral notes — something you took pride in, ‘cause it only meant you were never found with anything serious, and that the switchblade in your socks had not been noticed even if you at first propped your feet up the table. Whatever the case, the man talked your ear off some more before he let you go once more, encouraging you to go out and mingle. And mingle you will, after all you had to know what were these rumors and this strange air that wafted about.

That offbeat feel coating you the moment you walked out of the Principal’s office, like the dull man himself was immune to the excitement of uncertainty. But you wondered why that sensation felt heavier, closer, starting to truly suffocate.

Until you saw it and it held your breath hostage, like your own switchblade had been taken and used against you. Danger walking in your vicinity, yet never tangible. The tension you felt before all emanated from this girl you saw walking right past you, like anguish itself had formed in the shape of 5’1 chiseled perfection, a gorgeous face with the pair of eyes that told a story the moment you looked at them. A story intriguing enough to make you turn around as you saw her walk past you, clutching her backpack and her eyes fixed somewhere beyond this world. Pushing the door with certain surrender and the Principal’s voice shifting its tune before that door slammed right in your face. It only took you a second to turn and see, in that quick flash, all the eyes and heads go back to hiding.

Shit, you would even wager that this was the woman of the hour, the one who made the whispers and wild theories cease entirely down the hallway, the one who suddenly released a bit of the pressure in this pressure cooker of a school. But only a little bit, enough to give you breathing room. Enough to make you decide to pursue this curious endeavor.

A dangerous endeavor to handle gingerly like a dynamite, but one that felt like home to you.

Your gravitas didn’t make you very popular. 

Implicitly, it told everyone what they feared was true. The dregs of society living in a microcosm within you, the future harbinger of anarchy in this prestigious school. That made listening into the gossip a total pain in the fucking ass, the conversation suddenly steered to you when they all realized that the boogeyman came to school. Much to your annoyance, there was only so much your earphones could block. A hard shot of rock and hip-hop could only muffle the sound of shuffling feet, tray slamming, loud laughter, and the barely concealed looks of wonder from the normal students. Couldn’t even trust the loudmouths to give you the tip!

There you were all by your lonesome at the cafeteria with a tray of already empty containers, your voracious appetite satiated for the time being. But your craving for destruction? Still flaring hot, making your fingertips tap to the anxious rhythm of the music; your eyes scanned through the swimming crowd looking for that walking nuclear bomb. You needn’t look longer, not when the entire atmosphere shifted again as soon as someone walked into the Cafeteria. Several eyes and heads turned to observe, most with disdain, some others with fear, but all of them with curiosity. Just like yours.

A menace with a nice pair of legs, almost gliding through the mass like she was eternally bored with the crowd around her — uncaring of what they thought, and never regretting whatever it was she did to earn such a silent reputation. Shorts that certainly had to violate some kind of dress code, nice rich-girl sweater, and old-lady that’s equally rich kind of watch and ferociously smooth hair limply set on her shoulder and chest. Black, on black, on black, like a young widow in mourning of something. Frankly, that only made you wonder if she capped someone, offed them completely and was never accused formally. That didn’t help the mystery surrounding the girl seem any less tantalizing. 

Quietly observing her, you felt like a predator eyeing another one. Adrenaline threatened to pump, a surge of energy injected all over your body, but you held your position as she grabbed a tray, got herself a slob of food that looked more alive than the crowd, and made her way to a table as lonely as she looked. Deserted, the remaining suckers having seen her coming and scattering like scared cockroaches. Unbothered, she simply sat down to eat.

A beat, a second one, the music in your earphones slowly fading to leave you with your thoughts for that brief moment. Pondering, considering, ‘till you just couldn’t stop yourself, getting up from your seat. The thick air almost made it difficult to walk in her direction, like a magnet keeping you away from a bad decision. Tick-tick-clicks from the metaphorical bombs in tandem to the rhythm of your hefty footsteps, a soldier marching head first into war, while stories of street wars blasted in your eardrums. Once you were too close, you knew something had shifted for you.

First contact.

Unceremoniously, you sat right across from her as her gaze stayed fixed upon her food, hands busy going through the mechanical motions while her thoughts surfed far away from this dull small village. You just observed quietly for that moment, with a subtle smirk on your lips. When she finally looked up to see you, it seemed a bit obvious she did not expect you. Oh, those eyes were brookite gemstones that glimmered with devious indifference, perhaps vague annoyance, but you’ve encountered worse. 

“Can I help you?” She said, her voice piercing through the layer of melodies and hypnotic drums. “I’m busy here.”

Plucking your earphones off, you finally addressed her proper. “What’s your pitch?”

Confusion, hands still idly going through the motions. 

Leaning closer, arms on the table now, you pressed on further. “People here are avoiding you like the plague, yet no one can tell me anything.” Pause, she didn’t interject or even cared to add, her gaze lost in the universe once again. Instead, the silence set for a moment. You shrugged. “You’d think the criminal new student would be the draw of attention, but you, whoever you are, seemed to do something worse than I did,” which, for the record, was funnier than it was bad. 

The girl paused, stabbing that lively blob with her fork absentmindedly before she looked back up at you. “You? A criminal?”

Your smirk grew a little bigger. “That’s the word around here,” you mumbled at length. Just for her and you to hear. “So, I think we both might be on the same boat.”

She fully stopped, putting her fork down. “What boat is that?”

“The boat of outsiders?” you tried with a soft chuckle, head tilted, her expression stainless steel that concealed any true emotion. “The boat of outcasts in this… dull, boring herd of sheep,” you continued, letting a bit of that natural disdain for normalcy seep through to your voice. 

And unsurprisingly, that caught her interest. Expression softened, eyebrows loosening, body moving forward closer to you. A kinship cemented in rebelliousness, in refusal to stick to the routines… A desperate need to be more than what’s decided. That’s how you knew this danger was worth to keep closer.

A hand boldly came forth for shaking. Yours. A meaningless name exchanged for a precious one. 

Her own hand, graceful but contained, reached to meet yours for a formal shake. And thus her lips shared that intoxicatingly good name. 

Click, click, went the pen in your mind. Flowing tip doused in ink, dancing as it wrote the name of your maddening muse.