4:17 a.m.
Outside it had been dark for hours, nearly daylight again, when Lyra unlocked the door to her apartment.
She caught a scent in the air. A scent that gave her a fragment of stability, though no real comfort. The scent of home, or at least some… peace.
She let her sports bag drop, with the costume and the rest of her stuff inside. The dull thud didn't bother her. She slid off her sneakers and set them neatly side by side. The bag, though, stayed where it fell.
Once she stripped off her jacket and tight jeans, her shoulders sagged slightly.
"Ughhh…" she sighed, one strap of her tank top slipping down her shoulder.
She tossed her clothes and phone onto the bed and walked into the bathroom. Like the rest of her two-room apartment, it was small. Small, dark, and windowless. The gray tiles pressed down more than they decorated, lit only by flickering energy-saving bulbs.
At least it was pretty modern, renovated just before she moved in. Better than her last apartment. But it still didn't feel like a home.
Nonsense.
Lyra peeled off her socks, stepped onto the soft rug in front of the sink, and braced both hands on the porcelain edge. The familiar tickle under her toes as they pressed into the fabric gave her the faintest comfort. A band-aid too small for the wound of a fucked-up life. Behind the faucet lay a blister pack, with exactly one pill left.
If only I'd taken it…
A thought of nonsense, again.
She lifted her heavy gaze to the mirror. Above her chest, dark red hickeys stained her pale skin, each one a small betrayal against herself. Along her arms, bruises mixed in, looking nothing like tenderness.
Disgusted by both the memories and herself, her gaze dropped into the empty sink. She turned the faucet until the water ran, then bent down and plunged her face in.
Same routine as every day.
Almost a kind of catharsis, washing herself clean of guilt.
Cool water spread across her warm, sweaty face. Underwater, everything was quiet, blurred, like she could find another reality inside it.
One where everything was okay.
One where tonight had never happened.
Where the whole club had never happened.
But that reality didn't exist.
She felt it creeping up. A dull, smothering warmth flooding her head, despite the cold water.
That feeling… slow… dangerous… consuming…
Yet somehow soothing. Maybe she should stay down here. Let it happen. Just give in.
Maybe it would be better if—
*WYAHOO~*
A shrill sound yanked her out of her thoughts.
And out of the sink.
So hard she toppled backward and landed on her ass.
"Ow…" she muttered, propping herself up on the floor.
One hand groped blindly until it caught the sink edge. Slowly, shakily, she hauled herself upright.
Then she froze.
Wait. What?
Lyra slipped again, falling back onto the floor with a thud. But right now, pain didn't matter.
Wyahoo?
That sound from Animal Crossing?
When you dig up an old fossil?
The text tone she'd set for Hana?
What?
Faster than her thoughts, she grabbed the sink and hauled herself up, stumbled out of the bathroom, almost tripping as she staggered into the bedroom.
She found her phone lying between the clothes on the bed. Then again—
*WYAHOO~*
Lyra flinched, hesitated for a second, like the playful tone actually scared her. Then she picked it up and let herself fall onto the mattress; the screen glowed cold.
Indeed. Two new messages.
Hana: "Lyly... hey. forget that dumb bet, okay?"
Hana: "are you okay??"
The peace offering hit Lyra like a slap.
"Lyly"? Is she completely wasted?
That name? That message? A bad joke?
Her fingers trembled, clenched around the display. Her breath came too tight, like it was holding something back. She tried to unlock the phone, but the fingerprint sensor refused. She tried again and again, jamming her thumb too hard.
Come onnnnn…
"Fingerprint not recognized. Please try again."
"Fingerprint not recognized. Please try again."
"Fingerprint not recognized. Please try again."
"Too many attempts. Please enter your code."
FUCK OFFFFFF
Lyra swallowed dry, stared at the input field, and then she typed it in.
"19 1 20 19 21"
The phone unlocked and the chat with Hana popped open. A part of her wanted to stop, to hesitate, but she didn't even let the cursor blink three times before she was typing, faster than her doubt.
Lyra: "This is what you text me for? A fucking bet? Fuck that. Keep your pity money."
She hit send, then started typing again
.
Lyra: "What's this supposed to be your cheap pity act? Please. I can bullshit myself just fine."
—sent.
Her fingers shook more than she liked, already moved to the block menu when another message appeared.
Hana: "ok wow… just wanted to check if you're okay."
Lyra watched the little typing bubble…
Hana: "but if you're like this i'll leave you alone."
Her pulse still hammered at her throat, but Hana's words sounded different than in the club, too soft. Too honest.
In the chat, under the contact it still read: Hana 🐷 — online.
Lyra stared at the screen for a while. The status didn't change. The cursor blinked, expectantly.
"She's lying…" Lyra muttered, turning to the side. Her arm loosened and the phone dropped back onto the mattress, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. In her head she rewound the night, hunting for reasons why Hana might lie. Why she would pour salt in the wound so carefully. She could imagine a dozen motives. None of them fit Hana though.
She raised the display again.
The cursor still blinked.
Hana was still online.
As if they'd conspired against her.
Reluctantly, she began to type. Her pulse steadied, her fingers less shaky.
Lyra: "As if you care."
—sent.
Seconds later the typing bubble, the three dots, appeared again.
*pop*
Hana: "in a way… i do"
Hana: "kinda"
Hana: "idk"
The dots danced again.
Hana: "soo… uhm, was there… something??"
Heat rose in Lyra's cheeks and chest. Her body reacted, breath hitching, as if it wanted to smother the feeling.
Why the fuck is she worrying about me??
"Why now? Why today? Why at all?" she whispered, voice cracking into the empty room. Her face sank into the mattress
for a few seconds. Then she started to type.
"Prolly just not used to losin▌"
Lyra stopped. That would only be half the truth. She stared into the dark of her room, the window reflected the pale light from the bathroom. Memories came back. Her reflection. The marks on her skin. The feeling in the water that had almost swallowed her.
Her features went slack into an empty expression.
Fuck it.
She rolled onto her stomach, propped both elbows into the mattress, her fallen tank-strap bobbing, and erased the old message. She started over.
"I'm just… so tired of this life▌"
Lyra stared at the words like at her own reflection. Still, she deleted a few words. She wasn't going to lay that bare. Not now. Not in front of Hana.
"I'm just… so tired of▌"
The unfinished text sat there like a question to herself, but the answer was simple.
Lyra: "I'm just… so tired of this job."
This time she didn't reread it. She bit her lip hard enough to sting and hit send.
Two blue ticks. Hana had read it. Right away. Again.
Does she seriously have nothing better to do?
Shame crawled up her spine as it hit her. Hana must've seen the typing, deleting, hesitating.
God, how humiliating…
Lyra waited, teeth gnawing her lip until she tasted iron. Familiar, almost.
…
Nothing.
No dots. No reply.
With every second of no reply, regret grew.
Wow. She's probably laughing at me right now…
Her teeth ground together, as if they could crush the words she'd just sent.
But it was too late.
The message was out. Hana had seen it. Deleting it now would be even more pathetic.
She turned off the screen and hurled the phone into the pillow beside her.
Fuck.
Lyra curled onto her side, arms and legs pulled tight, like she could hold herself together.
Fuck Riri. Fuck Hana. Fuck the bet.
All because of that stupid fucking bet.
Her eyelids sank, wanting nothing but darkness. Blurred nothingness.
Then the screen lit up again.
Her hand was already on it.
Hana: "i see… let's talk tomorrow"
Lyra's pupils shrank, not just from the light. She opened the chat fast, but Hana was already offline.
She stared at the message, reading it once, twice, like the sentence was too heavy to grasp. Something inside her loosened. Whatever it was, it left a single tear sliding down her cheek, her lips twitching clumsily.
For a moment she just lay there, arms spread, eyes on the ceiling, listening to her pulse until it finally calmed. It still pounded, but different now.
"Let's talk tomorrow…" she whispered Hana's text aloud.
She set the phone aside, went to wash up, then came back in her black pajama set with the white bats she secretly loved. The fabric felt soft against her skin.
Maybe Hana feels the same. Maybe she gets me.
She lay down, clutching the pillow tight, like it could turn into that fragile hope.
I… I can't keep doing this.
The thought blurred into the dark until she drifted off.
Quieter than she had in a long time.
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10:13 a.m.– The next morning
The first thing Hana felt was the damp. Her T-Shirt was drenched. The sheets clung to her like she'd slept in a sauna. Sweat matted her hair to her neck. Her thighs stuck as she rolled over.
She tried to push herself up, but her body fought it. Every limb shook, worst in her hands. Tremors ran from fingertips up to her shoulders. Her teeth chattered.
"A–already?… shit…"
It took three tries to get onto her elbows. The first time her arms gave out. The second she slipped on the soaked sheets. The third she made it, but dizziness slammed her. And nausea with it.
The room spun, her vision flickered like an old VHS tape. She reached for the bedframe, missed, cursed, then forced herself upright.
Her knees trembled.
So did her lip.
A stale smell hung over everything. Cigarette smoke, rancid oil, the sweet bite of an open wine bottle from last night. She'd forgotten to crack the window. Again.
She staggered a few steps, past crumpled clothes on the floor, nearly stepping into a half-crushed bag of chips stuck to the carpet. At the table, an ashtray overflowed beside four empty Hyoketsu Strong cans and a half-eaten strawberry sando.
On the shelf next to it, her manga stood in neat rows. Perfectly aligned, dustless. Magical girls with radiant smiles. High school romances. Happy endings in a row.
The contrast to the rest of her apartment was grotesque.
A shrine of normality, built from fantasy, reminding her every day how far she was from the life she once wanted.
But right now, there was only one thing she cared about.
Her eyes locked on the kitchen, if you could call the crooked nook that. Instinct guided her hand to the fridge handle. Her palm was slick with sweat, almost slipping as she pulled it open.
The light flickered weakly, like a warning. She ignored it.
Back behind the mayo tube, it waited.
The bottle of wine.
Her stomach cramped with pure craving.
"I'm pathetic," she whispered, pulling it out. Opened the sticky screw cap. Barely an inch left at the bottom.
Should've just finished it yesterday. Maybe then I would've slept through.
She tilted it back. The first sip burned. The second slid easier. Her stomach clenched against the acid, then surrendered. Like always.
The dull weight inside her eased. The tremor in her fingers softened. The lump in her throat melted into that warm, familiar blur. The one that made the hole in her chest feel less empty.
She put the bottle back into the fridge where it vanished among the other empty bottles. Then stumbled into the bathroom. The light there was merciless. Too bright to hide from herself.
The mirror didn't shock her anymore. Too familiar for that.
Still disgusting.
Black rings under her eyes. Smudged red at her mouth. Marks on her neck and collarbone.
She stared. Long enough that her face stopped looking like her own.
Then she lit a cigarette. Her fingers still shook as she sparked the flame.
The first drag scraped so deep in her throat she had to cough.
She leaned back against the cold tiles, let the smoke slip slowly from her nose, and stared at the sink like she was waiting for it to compliment her.
"Sexy as ever," she muttered, barely audible, without a flicker of emotion.
The cigarette burned only halfway before she crushed it and glanced at her phone. It still sat beside the crumpled, old cigarette pack, right next to the toilet lid.
Guess I should send them something…, she thought.
Wanting to or not didn't matter. Her parents expected it.
Hana straightened up and stepped closer to the mirror. She tugged her front strands into place and tied a little half-ponytail. Then she painted over the red blotches and the circles under her eyes.
Finally she clipped in those silly pink plastic barrettes she'd bought months ago at Daiso. The only reason she wore them: they made her look younger. And her mother always liked that.
Then came the smile.
The big one.
The one that didn't fit her.
The one that said "I'm fine".
She held up a peace sign beside her face and snapped a photo.
A second of hesitation, then she typed:
"Therapy's going great! ☀️
Been clean for 2 months now! 💪
Heading to work soon, love you ❤️"
She stared at the message before hitting send, her hand trembling slightly. Then she set the phone back on the rim of the tub.
Her lips twitched for another moment.
The smile vanished. The pink clips didn't. They stayed there, childish and ridiculous, as she turned toward the shower.
She turned the water hot.
So hot her skin went red.
But the dirt still didn't come off.