she shows up late. always does. not fashionably, not even carelessly — just wrong, like a glitch in the night, like something lethe tried to spit out but couldn’t quite manage. her heels are mismatched. she lost one of the original pair days ago and never cared enough to replace it. there's a smear of lipstick on her cheek like she forgot where her mouth was, and her pupils are blown wide, black holes swallowing what little light’s left in her. she's wearing a white slip — something thin and askew and wrinkled from where she slept in it on someone else’s floor. it clings like humidity, like a fever, like guilt that never dried out. one strap’s slipping off her shoulder and she doesn’t bother to fix it. her ribs show.
she knows she doesn’t belong here — but the night is predatory, and it pulls her in anyway — slow and sweet like poison disguised as honey, like the way black mold grows behind wallpaper.
inside, the party swells. champagne towers glint like knives. someone laughs too loud. the music cleaves like a migraine. she doesn’t go in. not yet. she hovers on the threshold, shoulders bare, glitter clinging to her skin like fallout. a cigarette dangles between two fingers, already half ash. her lighter’s almost out of fluid, but she keeps clicking it anyway. eventually it catches. she inhales — like she’s trying to burn something out of herself. exhales like maybe it worked. but there’s a bitter punch — of caffeine. of nicotine. of something else she can’t remember taking. her hands twitch, her jaw locks, and her heart stutters in that way it sometimes does, like it’s trying to warn her. she ignores it.
footsteps approach — slow, cautious, like whoever it is already knows better. she doesn’t turn. doesn’t acknowledge them. just stares into the dark like there might be something in it worth finding.
‘ what. ’ there's no inflection — just flat. hollow. like a snapped wire, without urgency. the cigarette burns to the filter.
