#killicns

          the hem of his favourite sweater grazing her bony kneecaps, fluffy socks slipping down to her ankles, carmen crossed her fingers and eyes in the hopes that killian finally reading her messages meant that he was on his way home. under the guise of clothes that had ALWAYS been too big for her, she hoped that he wouldn’t notice the bruised bags that sunk beneath her tired eyes, the unshakable slightness too her frame, the jerky movements that reached for something she had detoxed from every aspect of her life. their home was clean. she was clean; that was the most important thing. a balloon of pride began to swell in the pit of her chest, hunched posture growing more confident at the sound of their front door unlocking. sleeves rolled to her elbows, she spread her arms in a display of flesh that hadn’t been pinched by the point of a needle in weeks, as he entered the living room. ‘ TA-DA! ’

CARMEN: i miss you.

           trembling, skeletal fingers clamped around every unopened drawer, tearing the guts out & onto the floor. in the car, they’d taken whatever assortment of pills that had been in their bag, bone dry and choked down a throat that could barely allow the a simple respiratory exchange of oxygen and carbon dioxide. nothing would ever feel like enough. stumbling feet carried them across haphazardly strewn objects and towards the bathroom instead, when they tore open the medicine cabinet and grabbed the first bottle of pills their wide gaze landed upon. unable to open it, they began bashing the container against the porcelain sink, hands entirely numb to the bruising impact. “ FUCK, please. ”

8 SEPTEMBER, posing at the harper’s bazaar annual event celebrating icons, longtime couple carmen bianchi and killian mauthe were snapped on and off the red carpet. no questions were answered, but her outfit did all the talking.