Chapter Text
I was floating, again. Freezing water constricting around shaky wrists, like chains, holding me in place. I was floating. Floating in an endless ocean, like a leaf in still water. No direction, no current. Just trying not to drown.
With a grey sky as their backdrop, the vultures circled. Wings like knives, slicing the air, reflecting in Kylodoscopic eyes. A vulture dove. Caws like cameras flashing. Claws seeking purchase of honey skin. Mouths hungry for a piece of me I didn’t want to give.
Water suffocates as towering waves form in all directions. A black tide of feathers flowing in harmony with the rising water. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t breathe. They struck together, the water, the wings, a crushing tide from every direction. I couldn’t fight. I couldn’t flee. All I could do was clench my eyes and wait for impact as the warm water held me down.
Warm? Gasping, shivering, blinking. The ocean, the vultures, the waves, the suffocating weight, gone. Warm water pooled around clenched hands. Warm water slid down my freckled face. The steady flow of the tape. My pulse slowed. I was here. I was here in this dingy diner bathroom, sobbing over my own thoughts. Feeling the sneer of my reflection in the mirror, I kept my eyes fixed on the running water, refusing to meet my own gaze.
Drying my shaky hands too quickly, leaving damp crescents on light denim jeans. I mechanically pushed through the bathroom door. That stupidly persistent fluorescent hum pressed against my skull. Shelves were stacked with yellow chip packets and sticky bottles of soda. I slid onto a cracked vinyl stool at the counter and pressed my forehead into my palm, scanning for a topic that didn’t hurt.
My eyes caught on a bright yellow sticky note stuck crookedly on the mechanical clock, which flashed 8:37 in red light. ‘Heyyyyy Melody try smiling at least one customer tonight! Bright vibes only!!!” Cheery stars and hearts scattered around the slanted handwriting. A traditional ‘Nyla note’. I swallowed. Not bright. Not cheerful. Sharp. Mocking. My stomach dropped. Three days. Three days since she… since everything. I didn’t even think about it at first, my mind just… went there, fast, uninvited, like it was waiting for a crack in the door I'd just fought to close.
I was crying, late at night in bed, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. Four jobs, back-to-back shifts, endless hours on my feet, everything I did during the day to tire myself out enough to fall asleep, to make my brain stop racing in vain. My body was spent, my muscles sore, and still the tears came anyway. The same as almost every night. Except this time… Nyla heard me.
The light snapped on, and suddenly she was there, climbing onto my bed, sitting me up, demanding to know what was wrong. I shook my head, denying that anything was wrong, but she kept pressing.
“Did someone hurt you?”
“Come on, just tell me.”
“You’ll feel better if you talk about it.”
The water was rising, and rising and rising. My head was underwater. Her voice became muffled, drowned out by the tide. Water wrapped around me. Olive arms wrapped around me, too tight, too insistent. Nyla’s relentless guessing became stones mixed up in the onslaught of water.
I was sitting in bed, I was fighting a storm. I was whacking Nyla’s arm’s away. I was coughing up water. I was coughing up words.
I screamed “Ju- Just go away! I don’t want to talk right now! Please just leave me alone!”
And the water went still.
Words hung in the thick silence, heavy and hurtful, potent and permanent. Plump lips trembled, stunned green eyes blinked furiously. I opened my mouth to swallow the words I'd spat, but Nyla spoke first:
“Of course, of course.” She does that quick little nodding thing, biting her lip like she’s holding herself together with string. Her eyes are glassy, rimmed red, but she refuses to let them spill. “This—this is just what you do. What you always do.”
Her voice wavers, thin and brittle, but then it catches, snaps in half. The next words come louder, rougher, like they’ve been forced up through her throat too fast.
“You always push everyone away. Do you get that?” Her hands twitch at her sides, then shoot upward, cutting through the air like she can’t keep them still. “Every time I try to help, you shut me out, and I’m the one left feeling like—like an idiot.” Her breath stutters; she drags a hand across her face like she can’t stand her own tears.
I can’t breathe. Her words hang in the air like smoke, burning, choking, impossible to wave away.
“Do you even know how—how exhausting that is?” The words tumble over each other, her voice cracking in places she doesn’t bother to hide. “It’s like dragging around someone who doesn’t even want to stand up! Do you hear me? I’m—” her chest jerks with a broken laugh, bitter, wet “—I’m trying so damn hard, and you’re just sitting there. Just sitting there in it. Like it’s all you want to do.” Her hands flutter, then clench into fists, like she wants to hit something. “You don’t even try. You don’t try to smile, or talk, or do anything that makes it easier to be around you. And it’s not fair!”
The mattress dips as she shoves herself off it, the space beside me suddenly cold. She paces, arms flailing, her rose gold rings flashing in the lamplight. Each step makes the floorboards creak, sharp and uneven, like they’re echoing her anger.
“I’m not your therapist, I’m not your babysitter, and I can’t be the one who has to drag you out of whatever pit you’re in.” Her hair slips loose from its clip as she turns too fast, green strands catching against her damp cheek. “You make everything heavier just by being there.”
Tears slipped free, falling onto the aqua fan-patterned pajamas she always wore, soaking the fabric as her shoulders shook “You don’t even try. Not to smile, or talk, or—anything. Anything that makes it easier to be around you. And it’s not fair! It’s not—” Her voice catches, climbs too high, then drops again. She stumbles back like she can’t stand being that close.
Her chest rises and falls like she’s run a marathon. Her face is blotchy, streaked with tears. “You’re pulling me down with you. And I didn’t sign up for that. I didn’t.”
The silence stretched, sharp and unbearable. My mouth opened before I could stop it, words scraping out raw.
“You’re right,” I whispered. My voice cracked, pathetic. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry I’m like this. I should be better by now.”
For half a second, her face wavered, like she might soften. But then her jaw tightened, her lips pressing thin. “Don’t.” Her voice came low, clipped. “Don’t even cry. Stop trying to make me feel bad for you.”
She shook her head, a sharp, jerky movement, and stepped back from the bed like she couldn’t stand to be near me anymore. “If you were actually sorry, you’d try harder. But you don’t.” Her hands were shaking now too, fingers curling into fists, then unclenching like she wanted to throw something but couldn’t. She swiped at her face with the heel of her hand, smearing away a tear.
“I’m done. Okay, Melody? I’m done.”
She spun on her heel, almost tripping over her own bare feet as she moved for the door. The slam splintered through me like glass.
I couldn’t breathe. The walls tilted, the air pressing too heavy against my chest. My hands shook, claws at my throat, but nothing got through. No air, no sound, just this suffocating rush. My vision blurred at the edges, dark spots blooming, my heart stuttering so hard it hurt. I folded in on myself, gasping, gagging, water rising, rising, until there was nothing but the storm.
Since then, everything’s been… off. Gabby still leaves her sticky notes and chore lists on the fridge, still texts reminders like nothing happened. But it’s different now. Her handwriting looks sharper. Her smiles don’t reach her eyes. The space between us, neither of us will touch it.
A few nights ago, I heard her on the phone. I wasn’t even trying to listen, but her voice carried through the walls, low, tired, clipped. Complaining to her friends. I only caught fragments, but I knew who she meant. I knew it was me.
And just like that, it hit again, that old, familiar ache. The one that says I’m too much. Too broken. Too slow. That I drag everyone down no matter how hard I try not to. I tell myself I’ll do better, smile more, talk more, be lighter. I’ve tried so many times to fix myself, to be someone worth keeping around. But it never sticks. Two weeks at most before it all slides off and I’m back where I started. Back to mistakes. Back to being not enough. I’ve half given up trying. Why bother when the result will stay the same.
The bell at the door rang. I sat up. The customer bought milk. They left. And I’m alone again. Alone with my thoughts, which always hurt. I tried to think of things that didn’t hurt.
I thought about catching the same bus to job two, the same strangers in the same seats.
I thought about the groceries I bought on autopilot, milk, bread, apples, scanned by the same cashier with the same hollow smile.
I thought about anything, everything, so long as it wasn’t that.
The bell above the door jolted me awake. Awake? 9:53 now flashed in red. Someone stumbled inside, shoulders hunched, right eye hidden behind a dark strand. Midnight light spilled through the windows, washing everything in pale blue. For a moment, I thought I’d imagined her, the sharp angles of her face, the shadows beneath her eyes, the way she moved like gravity pressed a little heavier on her than the rest of the world.
She looked... terrible. Not in the way Nyla would say ‘I look terrible’ as she examined their olive complexion in a phone mirror, groaning over smudged eyeliner. Nor in the way she would exclaim “That’s terrible!” at a friend's misfortune. No. This girl looked terrible in the raw, bone deep sense. Her clothes were rumpled, clinging damply to her frame; dirt streaked her skin, and the pallor of exhaustion had leeched the color from her face. Her lips were dry and cracked, a shadow of sleeplessness and hunger etched every line, yet her posture remained taut, ready to spring at a threat. She looked like someone who had been on the run. But also like someone who would keep running if they had to.
“Alina?”
Looking up, the figure blew her hair from her face, “How many jobs do you have?”
The world froze. Or it slowed. Maybe it sped up. Gooseflesh raced a shiver up my arm, moisture stung my eyes as they met hers.
Oh those eyes. They were black. Not like pools of ink or the dark dirt, but with an almost purple tinge. I’d only gaze at those orbs a few times before, but it felt like I’d seen them every day of my life. The weariness in them was as clear as the shadows that framed them, but beneath it burned a sharp, constant motion, an alertness that suggested she was always thinking, always calculating. She was slightly guarded, but not fully; her bone structure hinted at someone born to mistrust, yet life had shaped her into a person whose eyes, even in exhaustion, flickered with warmth, stubborn intelligence, and the restless energy of someone who refused to be caught off guard.
“You’ve got more than three, at least”.”
I blinked, still half caught in the pull of disorientatingly deep deja vu “Uh… what?”
Her lips twitched in amusement. “‘First the chemist, then the cafe, now here? I feel like I should get a stamp each time I find one.” She was openly smirking now, it wasn’t forced, but the pain around the edges was clear. At moments it seemed more grimace than smile
She really did look terrible. Not in the way that storms leave wreckage, broken and scattered. More like an ocean bolder, resisting erosion. Refusing to be worn down. What was wearing her down?
“You look terrible.” My stomach dropped as my brain caught up with my mouth. “I mean… uh, I mean not terrible! I didn’t mean-ah, forget it!
Alina smirked, her lips quirking upward like she’d missed seeing me embarrassed, like she'd thought about me as much as I thought of her. “Ah yes, still charming as ever. Do you have any food?” she asked.
“Well,” I muttered, embarrassingly aware of the flush creeping up my neck, “we are in a shop.”
Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I don’t have money.”
“So you came in here to… what? Stare at it until it turns free?” I winced at my own words. “Sorry, that was rude,’ I added quickly, hoping my joke landed instead of coming off harsh.
Alina grinned shamelessly, I made her smile.
“It’s okay.” She breathed, pulling a stool from the counter, rubbing on her temples as if the conversation was heavier than she could carry. She laid her head on the counter for a few moments, she looked at me with those endless eyes that seemed far older than her exhaustion.
“I just need food,” She said softly, tilting her head, “Please.”
Oh those eyes.
Before she is able to place her head back on the counter, I toss a granola bar at her. She catches it without looking up.
“Nice catch, have you had practice?” I tease a rush of cold air greeting me as I open the fridge door. She looked thirsty.
After a few moments of chewing she mumbled out a mischievous “Maybe.”
The triangle zipper on her black cropped hoodie flashed under the fluorescent lights as I slid a bottle across the counter. The hood sagged down her back, sleeves shoved to her elbows, creases running through the fabric from overuse. A dark red ribbon circled her throat like a choker, black fingerless gloves clung to her hands, frayed at the seams, her knuckles pale against the fabric. She looked sharp and put-together at a glance, zipper, ribbon, gloves, but up close, she just looked… tired.
I slid the bottle across the off white plastic tabletop, its surface scratched up like a cat owner.
“Oh. So this is a habit? Late-night appearances, demanding snacks?” I cringed at my words unused to interactions lasting this long.
Alina cracked the cap and tipped the bottle back, chugging it. The zipper glinted with the sharp rise of her chest, the ribbon shifting slightly at her throat.
“Slow down,” I blurted. “You’ll make yourself sick if you drink that fast.”
She slowed, but only slightly, lowering the bottle with a soft thud and a crinkle as it shifted the granola rapper. The smirk she gave me was faint, tired around the edges. Outwardly ignoring my comment. “Hardly. My friend Nestor likes to throw food at me to make sure I eat.”
I chucked “Nice to know someone has some common…” I trail off noticing her hand clasping her side.
“Are you hurt?” I asked jumping over the counter to get a closer look.
“I’ve had worse,” Alina muttered shifting away.
“That’s not what I asked.” I took a step back, giving her some space. “Look… if you don’t want my help, that’s okay. But I just want you to know, I’ve got a first aid kit. You don’t have to use it, but it’s here.”
Sharp eyes met broken ones. Tired eyes met warm ones. I wasn’t forcing my help on her, I was offering. She didn’t have to accept, but she had the option. I needed her to know she had the option.
“Yes,” Alina said finally. “I need help.”
Thirty minutes later, that one ravine bang fell across the girl's sharp eye as she sat on the edge of the counter, fresh bandages wrapped around her waist.
“So,” Melody said, tying off the last strip. “Did you get beat up by kitchen utensils again?”
“Yeah,” Alina deadpanned. “That stupid toaster keeps fighting back.” Slender fingers tucked the strand behind her ear.
“Well, it definitely got a few burns in,” I teased leaning back. “Did your toaster form an alliance with your blender? Because you’ve also got a few cuts.” that was a understatement, a shallow gash ran across her forearm. The thin line of a burn peeked from beneath the hem of her dark red halter crop top, not deep, just enough to sting. She’d rolled up the cuffs of her camouflage cargo pants, and I caught a glimpse of mottled purple bruises blooming across her knees like spilled ink.
Even the knuckles visible through her fingerless gloves were tinged with fading blue. Against the dark purple fabric, every mark stood out
Alina winced. “Yeah. I get those a lot.”
“That’s not normal, you know.” humour turned to concern faster than a really determined bee hurtles into a glass door.
“Depends on the company you keep.” She shrugged picking up her hoodie.
“Depends on the story behind it.”
I bit my lip. Too nosy. Way too nosy. But instead of finding anger in her features, she was looking at me with something close to interest. Throwing caution out a second story window, I tilted my head, lowering my voice to a whisper. “So… what’s yours?”
“You ask like you actually want to know.” Alina’s voice was blunt but not unkind. My stomach twisted, was that good or bad?
“Like I said, someone turning up in the middle of the night demanding food… it’s bound to spark curiosity.”
The words left me before I could second-guess them, and for once, I didn’t shrink back. Her warm expression gave me no reason to shy away from my words.
”Curiosity, huh.” A flicker of amusement tugged at the corner of Alina’s mouth. “Dangerous habit.”
I shrugged, giving her a half-smile. “So is skipping dinner.”
She let out a soft laugh and shook her head. “You’re persistent.”
Then her gaze slid away, voice dipping lower. “I’ve been moving around for a while. Some people have been trying to find me, and I don’t really want to be found.” She looked up at me, scanning my face, checking my reaction, seemingly satisfied she continued, "I'm pretty sure I’ve lost them but I’m waiting a bit longer before I go back home, just in case.” She let out a low chuckle “I’ve kinda been on the run”
My frown deepened. People on the run weren’t always in the right. And the truth was, I didn’t know her, not really. Just a handful of chance encounters: tending to her wounds at the chemist, giving her shelter from the rain, crossing paths at odd hours. She was practically a stranger. She could very well be a young serial killer on the run from the authorities, looking for her next victim.
But being with her felt… warm. Familiar. Like trust. Like I’d been through everything with her, when in reality I barely knew more than her name. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it would get a true crime podcast made about me. But right now, I didn’t care. I didn’t have that much to live for anyway.
“Do you need a place to stay tonight?” The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Her eyes snapped back to mine, wary. “Why are you offering?”
I hesitated, searching for an answer that would make sense. “I guess… I am.”
For a heartbeat she studied me. Then she nodded once, grinning at me with more warmth than I deserved. “Then yes. I do.”