she was incandescent once â not in the garish way of things begging to be seen, but like candlelight at the back of an old church: steady, aching, inevitable. her eyes wore that kind of burn â the slow and sacred unraveling of a girl too brilliant to last. twenty - seven now, but something in her spine still rings nineteen, like a bell struck too hard and left to echo. she moved through lethe like a storm disguised as silence. people mistook her quiet for calm, her precision for peace. they didnât see how her genius smoked at the edges, how every answer she gave cost her something she could never get back. she was strategy sharpened to a knife's edge, haunted by a mind that never turned off, only flickered between brilliance and collapse. gravestones of half - sipped caffeine lined her desk, each one a quiet monument to a version of her that tried. and when the silence came â the real kind, not just the pause between library pages or lecture halls, but the thick, buzzing quiet that follows â she didnât run. she faded. people called her distant. some called her calculated. no one ever called her wrong. she made sure of that. but beneath the curated detachment, the beach was eroding. the sand shifted. the shoreline whispered. and she â she pretended not to hear it. pretended not to see the way people looked at her sideways, like a riddle they were afraid to solve. a ghost in borrowed skin.
she stared at juliette for a long time, or maybe it only felt long because her chest wouldnât stop tightening. the words landed â no, youâre right â soft, careful, like she was trying not to startle a wounded animal. rue almost laughed. as if there was anything left between them delicate enough to break. it had already shattered â rue was just walking barefoot through the shards, trying not to bleed.
she wanted to say something cruel, something final, something that would cauterize this ache in her throat. but all she managed was silence, because what could she say that wasnât soaked in indifference? that she remembered last summer like a phantom limb, still writhing, still hurting? that every time she looked at juliette, she saw the ghost of what theyâd been â and it was unbearable?
her jaw worked, uselessly. rueâs gaze flicked down, catching juliette's twitching hands, and for a heartbeat something inside her softened, old muscle memory urging her forward. she almost reached out. almost. but then the thought passed â if she touches me, iâll disinegrate. if i touch her, iâll forgive her. and i donât know which would ruin me more.
the question about the five barely registered. it was so ordinary, it stung. a cruel reminder of how far theyâd fallen. rue forced herself to look at her, though it felt like staring into the sun â too much, too blinding.
â i donât know why you keep trying, â she said finally, voice low, hoarse with something she refused to name. â but, no. â
moved through the morning like a revenant, her silhouette wavering in the half - light â unfinished as a half - remembered dream. the dawn, all gaudy with its borrowed hues, struck her not with warmth but with a kind of cruelty â it unveiled her. every rotted ardor carved beneath eyes, every scar not quite fading under that sickly gilding. she wasn't illuminated by it so much as exposed, and exposure had always felt like violence.
she lingered at the edge of julietteâs gaze, spectral, dazed, the sharpness of beauty dulled by exhaustion. once, she might've come toward her friend with laughter. now she came hollowed out, every step carrying the tremor of too many nights gutted by memory, by substances, by truths too poisonous to hold.
â awake, â she echoed, almost to herself. â if thatâs what you wanna call it. â she tilted her head, shadows pooling under cheekbones, and added â soft, sardonic, devastatingly weary. â didnât think anyone was sleeping anymore. â
rue didnât answer at first. didnât blink, just stared at the cracked tile between her feet like it might offer her an escape route. the question echoed â faint, rasped, too human. she couldâve said yes. couldâve lied. sheâd done worse with less. but instead, she breathed in through her nose, slow and sharp, like the air itself offended her. â you good for the night? â she repeated, her voice low and thin. â what the fuck does that even mean, rei. â there wasnât anger. anger had long since burned out, curled into ash inside her ribs. what was left was quieter. meaner. like frostbite setting in on something already broken. she finally looked at him, eyes voided â tired, sunken, glazed in the way that said i havenât slept and i donât care.
her lip twitched. not a smile but something that mightâve been pity if she had any left to give â for herself, or for him. so she looked away. like she couldnât stand the sight of either of them anymore. like maybe it hurt too much to look at someone who only ever watched her fall. but she didnât leave. just stood there, radiating debility like heat off asphalt, a woman whoâd already died a hundred quiet deaths and didnât see the point in mourning them anymore.
tommy finds rue alone, backlit by the harsh glint of the party inside, but untouched by any of its warmth, as if rejecting the notion that life will always continue to spin. he offers a slow smile in greeting, like he's trying not to disturb something, tinges of sadness buried in the corners of his lips.
âwhaaaaaat,â he mimics lowly, playful enough in an attempt to ease the tension folded into the space around her. âit's nice to see you tommy, oh it's nice to see you too rue.â he ambles over, feet light and easy, as if it wasn't the third time he'd circled the place.
he wishes he could sculpt wings from the waves so she could fly somewhere far where the light returns to her eyes, where all her favourite books are hungry for their pages to be turned by her. instead, all he can really do is remain by her side. it doesn't really feel like it's enough. âhow long have you been here? i've been waiting for you.â
rue stands just beyond the doorway like an afterthought, backlit by the vulgar, gold-stained glow of the party â its chandelier flickers like a dying star, casting shadows that move too fast to trust. the laughter inside is sharp, shrill, a chorus of people pretending theyâre not circling the same drain. she doesnât belong in there â never did â but tonight she doesnât even want to try. sheâs lit another cigarette she wonât finish. doesnât look at him right away. just exhales smoke like itâs punctuation. â didnât have to come out here. â another drag. another pause.
and she shrugs then. couldâve been minutes. couldâve been hours. â long enough to forget why i came. â a beat. a bitter half-smile. she turns her head, just slightly, and thereâs a flicker of something â recognition or regret or maybe just the comedown. â don't wait around next time. â soft. firm. final.
the silence settles back between them, thick and familiar. rue stubs the cigarette out against the stone and lets her hand drop to her side. sheâs unraveling slow and quiet, like an old record bleeding through a wall. and still â tired and strung out â she says, almost gently : â good to see you, tommy. â because some things still matter, even if they donât fix anything.
rue felt the weight of her own body like an afterthought, as if her limbs were borrowed. strings cut. her jaw slack, eyes sticky-slow. a breath. a heartbeat. the electric hum of something. misja. it was too quiet. there used to be comfort in the silence between them. that ache-less kind of closeness. now it just buzzed like feedback in rueâs ears â loud, empty, a pressure building behind her teeth. she parted her lips again, but nothing came. her mouth dry. the shape of words on her tongue, but her head too far behind, caught in static and loops and smoke. rueâs eyes traced the lines of them, blurred at the edges, but still : familiar. painfully. her fingers itched. then â laughter. maybe a cough. maybe both. â old, â she repeated, voice low, lazy, cleaved with some kind of warped affection. â speak for yourself. â she blinked slow, let her gaze fall to misjaâs hand â her strap slipping. and misja lifted it, gently, like it mattered. like rue mattered. â didnât come for the party, â she murmured. â didn't even remember whose fucking party it was. â a pause. the silence flooding back in, clinging to her like humidity. â i came because, â her mouth opened. she let the rest rot there. truth stuck somewhere between brain and tongue. instead, she let her eyes do the speaking. or maybe just the drowning. her mouth twitched. something soft bloomed behind her ribs, ugly and lovely all at once. â you always hated when people had plans, â she said, and she meant it kindly, but her voice came out quiet, raw. â made you feel like you were falling behind. â she let her head lull back, eyes fluttering half-shut. she didnât wait for an answer. knew misja wouldnât give her one. never did when rue was like this â floaty and frayed and clinging to the world by her teeth. and she smiled at her best friend then â this strange, languid, secret smile. the kind of smile that meant : i love you, i just donât know how to survive it. how to survive this.
rue doesnât look at them, tone slipping out flat, indifferent, too tired to bother dressing itself in anything close to warmth. â impressive, â she says, deadpan, like it costs her to acknowledge alena at all. â youâve cracked the code. slow suicideâs inefficient. â she watches the cigarette burn between alenaâs fingers like itâs not hers anymore â like it never was. smoke drifts between them, thin and pointless. she lets the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable. â didn't ask for company. â blunt. apathetic. a pause, deliberate. then, dry enough to wither. â but keep it. more smoke than skin anyway. â she finally glances over, eyes flat and glassy, pupils too wide, too black. her expression is unreadable. but maybe thereâs nothing left to read.
she takes the cigarette like an afterthought, like the universe handing her yet another inevitable thing to ruin. fingers brush his only briefly â an accidental, spectral thing â and curl around the offering as though it were bone, not paper. not a mercy. the motion is languid, dreamlike, the kind of slow that doesnât come from grace but from a body too used to drowning. smoke spirals from her lips seconds later, lazy, indifferent, trailing upward like a prayer that neither of them believes in. the ember flares between her knuckles â a dim pulse, something alive in hands that feel otherwise dead. her gaze, when it finds him, isnât sharp. it isnât anything. just glass and shadow. but she doesnât move. doesnât tell him to go. she simply stands there, fragile in that wrecked sort of way people mistake for strength, letting the world slip further from her grasp â neither matter enough to fix. and when her eyes catch his, truly catch, for the briefest flicker of a heartbeat â something raw lives there. something cracked and sorrowful and utterly, devastatingly human. she looks away fast, like it cost her. the cigarette burns low in her hand, smoke curling between them in thin threads. and rue says nothing else. because if she opens her mouth again, she might say stay. and she doesnât trust herself not to mean it.
from  the  moment  she  sets  foot  into  lethe  club,  hana  knows.  it's  impossible  not  to  notice  that  glimmering  light  tucked  at  the  other's  core:  a  spark  that  rue  evidently  wants  to  burrow  in  the  shadows  &  one  that  once  urged  hana  to  fan  it  into  a  flame.  something  hangs  between  them  nowâ  not  just  the  knowledge  of  last  summer,  but  something  new.  the  assumption  that  something  has  shifted,  the  clues  that  could  equate  to  the  what,  the  prior  knowledge  that  should  make  that  hypothesis  invalidâŠ
she  had  hardly  noticed  her  feet  moving  until  she  was  hovering  pointlessly  behind  the  other.  it's  nice  that  rue  notices  her  presence  too,  she  supposes,  so  that  there's  no  room  for  her  train  of  thought.
in  a  move  that  is  entirely  too  comfortable  for  months  of  silence,  she  corrects  the  strap  of  rue's  dress.  âthat's  better.â  a  surface  level  smile  crosses  perfectly  lined  lips.  it's  like  the  final  brushstroke  of  a  perfect  painting. Â
âyou're  late,  you  know.â  her  head  tilts,  curious.  a  moment  of  eye  contact  that  begs  her  to  read  between  the  lines.  (is  it  because  of  me?  is  it  because  of  him?)
thereâs something different now. she senses it, like a shift in the air before a storm breaks, like the way last summerâs memories stick to her skin, still bleeding into everything â but this isnât just memory. itâs sharper. meaner. a reckoning neither of them have the language to name.
she doesnât turn. she lets hana follow â lets her orbit, the way she always does, like her gravity is some cruel joke the universe keeps repeating. she doesnât know what sheâs waiting for. a confrontation, maybe. a knife between the ribs. or worse â kindness.
she feels the fingers before she registers the hand. hanaâs touch : featherlight, obscene in its intimacy. straightening her dress strap, like they havenât spent months in silence. like nothingâs changed. like everything hasnât.
she breathes, shallow, disinterested. â you always did care about appearances. â flat. detached. not quite cruel. worse, maybe.
she turns then, slow and deliberate, her gaze a dead thing when it meets hanaâs. whatever light hana thinks she sees, rue has buried it too deep. â doesn't really matter, does it? â
it didnât happen like a decision. it wasnât deliberate, not an act of rebellion or poetry. it happened like decay â slow, silent, inevitable. like fruit bruising in the bowl. like teeth loosening in the jaw. one minute she was sitting in her apartment, surrounded by books she could no longer read, thoughts she could no longer silence, grief she could no longer carry â and the next, she was holding something small and wicked in her palm, something chalky and cruel. a mercy, maybe. or an execution.
she didnât ask what it was. of course not. she didnât beg for answers â it drowned in her.
the boy â if he was even real â said nothing. just looked at her like he knew. like heâd seen girls like her before : too brilliant to be loved properly, too hollow to be saved. she wanted to hit him. or kiss him. or disappear entirely. instead, she swallowed it dry, throat aching around the edges, and curled into herself like a burnt page.
at first, there was no change. just the usual screaming in her skull, the mathematical precision of madness tightening its grip, wrapping her mind in fractals and fever. her heartbeat a metronome of ruin. her limbs a catalogue of old bruises, old sins, old wants.
but then â it bloomed.
not gently. not sweetly. it didnât lull her. it consumed her. like a fire dressed in silk. like molasses poured into her bloodstream. thoughts stuttered, then softened. colors smeared. grief melted into a kind of syrupy hallucination, gilded and vague. her mind â so sharp, so violent, always gnawing at itself â grew dumb and beautiful. the silence was obscene.
she lay down on the cold floor, cheek pressed to tile like she was praying to something beneath it. a god of rot. of forgetting. her eyes rolled up toward the ceiling and her mouth opened, slack and reverent. she started laughing â high and wet and meaningless â because her body was no longer hers. it was a suggestion. a rumor.
the world tilted sideways. her hands became metaphors. her skin sang. her bones softened into dust. somewhere, distantly, a version of herself was sobbing â but not this one. this one was incandescent. floating. dissolving into velvet shadow.
she was unmaking herself. gloriously.
her thoughts dripped down the walls like candlewax. her memories shattered into a flicker. the grief was still there, but it had become decadent, indulgent, almost erotic. she wanted to lick it off her fingertips. she wanted to sink her teeth into it. she wanted to die, a little, over and over again, in a lullaby of slow poison.
and in that sacred, syrup - soaked undoing, she realized :
this was only the beginning.
the nostalgia of living in your hometown as an adult can really make you sick. your childhood doesnât exist anymore yet you can see it all around you all the time
open to : four replies.
location : lethe club, 10 p.m.
she shows up late. always does. not fashionably, not even carelessly â just wrong, like a glitch in the night, like something lethe tried to spit out but couldnât 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 lightâs left in her. she's wearing a white slip â something thin and askew and wrinkled from where she slept in it on someone elseâs floor. it clings like humidity, like a fever, like guilt that never dried out. one strapâs slipping off her shoulder and she doesnât bother to fix it. her ribs show.
she knows she doesnât belong here â but the night is predatory, and it pulls her in anyway â 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 doesnât 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 lighterâs almost out of fluid, but she keeps clicking it anyway. eventually it catches. she inhales â like sheâs trying to burn something out of herself. exhales like maybe it worked. but thereâs a bitter punch â of caffeine. of nicotine. of something else she canât remember taking. her hands twitch, her jaw locks, and her heart stutters in that way it sometimes does, like itâs trying to warn her. she ignores it.
footsteps approach â slow, cautious, like whoever it is already knows better. she doesnât turn. doesnât acknowledge them. just stares into the dark like there might be something in it worth finding.
â what. â there's no inflection â just flat. hollow. like a snapped wire, without urgency. the cigarette burns to the filter.
