September 23, 2025
Hugo Hollands, 25
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I stared at the light bruise on my cheekbone, the shape of someone else's anger pressed into my skin like a memory that hadn't yet decided whether to stay. It didn't really hurt anymore. It had, for maybe ten minutes—sharp, immediate, a bright reminder of being alive—and then it dulled into nothing. The more I looked at it, the more I realized that nothingness had started to stretch, to linger, swallowing whatever came before it.
It's been like that with everything lately. At first, pain would hang around for two days, then one, then hours, until eventually it burned out within minutes, like a match too short for its flame. And it's not just the physical kind. I think I'm running out of ways to feel in general. The bruises heal faster, the guilt quiets quicker, and I keep wondering—will I reach the point where I stop hurting entirely? Wouldn't that be marvelous? To live without tremors under the ribs. Without ache. Without echo.
After we left the Morrison that night, I didn't hear from Igor or Kent. Not a word, not a rumor. The silence felt deliberate, like something had been neatly buried. Corvian didn't mention it either. He's been distant, careful in the way he exists around me now. As if proximity itself has grown volatile.
I decided to take a break from performing. Packed my things and moved again—to a cleaner apartment, a little fancier, still paid in cash. No contracts, no names, no proof of existence. It's easier this way, leaving no trail for anyone, not even myself. Protection, not paranoia—I needed somewhere the past couldn't forward my mail.
The place still smelled like the people who lived here before me—some blend of wood polish and citrus cleaner—but the light is good. There's a window that eats half the wall, and when the morning slides through it, it paints everything gold.
Poppy walked in holding two mugs of coffee, her socks mismatched, hair tangled beautifully around her shoulders. She handed me one, kissed my temple without a word, and sat on the sofa by the window. Her legs folded beneath her, her posture relaxed, her whole being softened by that buttery sunlight.
I stood there for a while, just watching her. The window poured daylight over her like honey spilled into milk, slow and rich, finding every curve of her skin. She looked unreal in it—like she belonged entirely to this moment, this gentleness. Not the bars, not the street corners, not the smoke-stained walls she once called home.
I sat beside her, the mug warm between my palms. She turned her head slightly, strands of hair falling across her cheek, eyes catching the light.
For a second, I thought—maybe this is what it feels like to be forgiven.
She smiled without looking at me, and the world went quiet enough for me to hear the coffee's surface ripple against porcelain. The bruise didn't matter then. Nothing did. Only the light moving over her was like a blessing I had no right to witness.
"Do you ever miss it?" Poppy asked.
Her voice drifted over the soft clink of our mugs. She was curled into the corner of the sofa, hands wrapped around her coffee like it was something living. Her hair slipped down one shoulder, catching the light from the window.
"The life you had in Ebonreach," she added, eyes shifting to me. "South Ebonreach. Before we moved up the scale like this."
I clicked my tongue, more out of habit than annoyance, and shook my head. "How could I ever miss it?"
She watched me quietly, studying my face the way she used to study cigarette ash, as if it could spell out a future. "Wasn't it simpler?"
"No," I said, without needing to think. "Never."
I leaned back, the sofa dipping under my weight. The bruise on my cheek tugged when I spoke, a dull reminder. "There hasn't been a day back then where I didn't feel like I had to squeeze myself dry just to survive. Every morning was a sprint. Every night felt like a countdown. I had to keep grinding, keep running, just to scrape enough money to exist through the day. And everyone around me was always looking down on me, always treating me like shit."
My throat tightened but the words were steady. "Nothing about South Ebonreach feels endearing to me. Not the streets, not the rooms, not the people. I don't miss any of it, and I don't think I should."
I turned my head, really looking at her. "Why? Do you miss it?"
She went quiet. Her gaze drifted to the window, where the light painted her lashes in soft lines. For a moment I thought she'd brush it off with a joke. She didn't. She took a slow breath instead, like she was pulling something up from somewhere deep.
"I sometimes only miss one thing," she said. "When we used to hang out under the bridge. Just us. A cheap bottle between us, talking shit and laughing."
A small smile tugged at her mouth, tired but real. "It made my days easier, you know? Especially after leaving an aggressive client, or someone who said something disgusting. By then I had learned to ignore most of it, but those nights with you and Riley and Eddie… they took my mind off things. For a few hours, at least."
Her fingers tightened around the mug. I watched her knuckles change color, then relax.
"You know, Hugo," she said, half to me, half to the air. "When I was very young, when I still lived with my parents and things were… okay for a bit, I guess." She let out a short breath. "Middle school, high school. Men would approach me all the time. Different ages, different places. They'd talk to me like I was interesting. I'd think, oh, so I'm someone they want to be around. Someone worth the effort."
Her lips curled, not quite in a smile. "Attractive as in… personality, you know? I wasn't even aware I had the looks. I just thought, alright, they like my conversation, they think I'm funny. I could talk about books, movies, stupid shows. I thought that was why they stuck around."
She swallowed, eyes fixed on some point on the coffee table. "But later I came to realize they were always sliding in these words, these hints, these little suggestions. That I should sleep with them. That if I liked them enough, that's what I'd do."
Her voice tightened, very slowly, like a thread being pulled. "And for a good portion of my life, I gave them what they wanted. Because I thought that meant they'd like me more. That I'd be the cool girl. Open-minded. Easy-going."
She blinked a couple of times, lashes wet but holding. "I didn't realize I was trading myself piece by piece. Every time. I felt like something was being taken from me, and I couldn't name what. I started feeling like I was—" She moved her hand in the air, searching. "Like I was getting thinner on the inside. And on the outside I was just… body."
My chest tightened. I wanted to say something, anything, but the way she spoke felt like a confession that had waited years for this exact room, this exact morning. So I kept still.
"I didn't understand why," she went on. "Because I knew I was funny. I knew I was smart. I got good grades. I was taking French classes. I could speak a little French, I was proud of that." A small, crooked smile. "I had all these things about me that should've made them want to sit with me, talk with me, listen to me. Stay after the kiss, you know? Talk about nothing for hours."
Her eyes darkened, the light shifting over them. "But they always found a way to push things toward kissing, then more. And then some of them stopped even pretending. It got to a point where they'd approach me straight for hookups. No layers. No talk. Just that."
She tilted her head, looking at her reflection in the coffee's surface. "And I kept asking myself, why? Did I give off something that said, I'm down for anything? Did I walk wrong? Laugh wrong? Was something about me screaming that I was available to be used?"
Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I still don't completely understand."
The room felt smaller around us, the air heavier. Outside, a car passed somewhere below the window, a muffled sound.
"Then," she said, her tone shifting, slower now, "I realized it wasn't about me at all. It's just how some men operate. Some aren't interested in conversation. Some only want to unload and leave. Then they show up again when they feel that weight build up, and they unload again."
She shook her head. "And it becomes a loop. It's not love. It's not even liking. It's… plumbing."
I huffed a breath that wasn't really a laugh.
"So I built this fence around myself," she said. "I thought, fine. I won't talk to men. I'll live my life alone and protect what's left. I became so defensive, every time a guy talked to me I'd be on edge, waiting for the moment the conversation turned sexual. Because I knew it would. It always did."
She paused, pressing her lips together.
"And I didn't know what to do. I was tired of being touched and still feeling invisible."
She set the mug down on the table with care, like it might bruise. Her fingers rubbed at a spot on her thigh through the fabric of her leggings, grounding herself.
"Then I met Roderick," she said. The name tasted sour in her mouth. "And I decided, you know what? If this life keeps knocking, maybe I should just open the door and see how bad it gets. So I dipped into it. Had my first sip of alcohol. My first drag of a spliff. It felt wild. Free. Like I was stepping out of the old version of me."
She stared ahead, eyes distant. "My family… they never asked where I was. They stopped caring, or maybe they never did. Nobody asked why I didn't come home. Why I wasn't in class. When I decided to move out before even finishing school, nobody said, 'Stop. What are you doing?'"
Her laugh came out quiet and bitter. "And yeah, I know teenagers are reckless, that whole rebellious phase and all that. But there should've been someone on the other side saying no. A hand pulling me back. Someone older, someone sane, someone who loved me enough to get in my way. I only realized that later. Back then I thought anyone who tried to stop me just wanted to ruin my freedom."
Her eyes glistened, but she blinked the tears back. "Roderick just used me. That was it. He opened my eyes in the worst way. I saw that I could get money out of what I was already giving away for free. So I did."
She swallowed. Her voice turned smaller, but somehow heavier. "I dropped the French classes. Dropped the gym. Stopped caring about how clever I was. My jokes, my ideas, my dreams… all of it went blurry. The only clear thing left was my body."
Her hand moved instinctively over her arm, fingers tracing the line of a vein. "Everything became a transaction. Open your legs, earn your rent. Smile, earn your dinner. Pretend to enjoy it, earn a little safety."
She sucked in a shaky breath. "And then it went wrong, like it always does. Things got ugly. Clients got rougher. The money wasn't enough. The danger climbed. I knew I'd get out at some point, I kept telling myself that. One more month. One more job. One more guy."
Her mouth trembled, anger and grief seated next to each other in her expression. "Then I met Eddie. And Riley. And then you."
She looked at me for the first time in a while, eyes wet, lips pressed tight. "And suddenly I realized, oh. I can meet men who aren't interested in my body. Men who don't see me as something they bought."
She let out a short, broken breath that was almost a laugh. "At first it offended me. I was thinking, what do you mean you're not looking at me like that? What do you mean you don't want me in that way? I thought I'd lost my worth. Because for so long, that's what worth had been."
Her voice cracked on the next word. "But then…"
She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand, eyes shining. "Then I learned that this is what I miss the most. Not South Ebonreach itself. Not the rooms. Not the clients."
Her throat closed around the words and she pushed through them. "I miss that with you, with Riley, with Eddie… I could sit down, fully dressed, and have a conversation."
She laughed softly, tears finally spilling. "That's it. That's all. Just… sitting there. Clothes on. No one taking anything from me. Just talking."
She brought her knees closer to her chest, arms circling them loosely. The light behind her turned the damp on her cheeks into tiny streaks of glass.
"That's the part I miss," she whispered. "Not the city. Not the pain. Just the proof that I can exist without being touched."
I put my mug down and shifted closer, the cushion dipping between us. My shoulder brushed hers. I didn't say it out loud, but the thought sat solid in my chest:
As long as I'm breathing, you will always have somewhere to sit down and just talk.
I set my mug down on the table. The ceramic clicked against the glass, small, quiet, almost shy. My hands felt useless just resting there, so I opened my arms. No words needed. Just space—real space—for her to fall into.
She understood immediately. Poppy placed her own mug aside with care, then crossed the short distance between us in one breath, folding herself against me with the entire weight of her body and all the years she had survived. I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her in, holding her like the world couldn't pry her away.
Her forehead pressed to my collarbone. Her shoulders trembled once. Then again.
"I want you," I said, the words coming slower than my heartbeat, "to make use of every second of this life we're living right now. Because you deserve it. All of it."
She drew in a small breath, barely moving.
"And I honestly don't know how long it's going to last before it collapses," I continued. "But I know one thing. As long as I'm alive, I'm here. For you. To listen. If you want to sit down and talk, if you just need to breathe somewhere safe—come to me."
Her fingers curled into the back of my shirt, anchoring herself.
"I love you so fucking much," I whispered into her hair. "And I still feel like I owe you more than I can say."
I swallowed. It hurt, the way truth always does. "When I got a glimpse of your life—those ten days, maybe less—I nearly lost myself in it. I kept thinking, so this is what it feels like to throw yourself under a man and wait for him to toss cash at you, like that makes everything clean. Like the money washes it off."
I shook my head. My voice cracked. "It doesn't. It never does. It makes you feel like your body isn't yours anymore. Like something took it over and you just let it. It's awful. It's fucking awful."
She held tighter, her cheek warm against my chest.
"And I can't even say I'm sorry you lived through that," I said. "Because I don't know what I'd be apologizing for. My words don't undo anything. They don't erase what happened to you. They don't… soften it."
I pressed my chin to her head, closing my eyes. "So enjoy the life we have right now. Please. Take the money. Splurge. Buy whatever you want. Buy an apartment. Hell, buy two. This isn't just my money. It's yours. You helped me before. You saved me. I'm paying you back."
Her breath hitched, a quiet, vulnerable sound.
"And don't look at the amount. Don't think about whether it's more or less. I don't give a fuck about that, and you shouldn't either. Because who knows what would've happened to me if I had spent one more night with another man back then. What would've happened if you didn't give me the money."
I pulled her closer still. "So just—enjoy it. Enjoy everything. Okay? Okay, Poppy?"
She nodded against my chest, arms clinging around my waist. Her voice came out small and cracked: "I love you so much, Hugo. You're really a great friend."
Great friend. The words settled somewhere in my ribs, warm and sharp at the same time.
But in my head, another thought stirred, quiet and cruelly honest:
Am I?
Poppy shifted, the warmth of her body leaving my chest for a moment before settling again. She adjusted herself until she was stretched along the sofa, her head resting in my lap, her cheek against my thigh. Her breathing steadied, softer now, as if she'd finally given herself permission to pause.
My hand found her hair on instinct, combing through the strands slowly. The moment should've felt grounding—comfortable, even—but my thoughts slipped somewhere else, somewhere darker.
Eddie.
I realized, with an almost bored kind of clarity, that ever since I heard he was missing, I hadn't felt anything. Not one spark of fear. No rising dread. No ache. Nothing. And that absence pressed on my chest in a way worse than worry would've.
Seven years. Seven years of knowing him, living glued to his shadow, sharing food, sharing laughs, sharing days I barely survived.
Shouldn't I feel something?
Maybe I should. Maybe I'm supposed to.
But instead, every time I try to reach for concern, I hit a wall of resentment so thick it swallows everything else.
Am I pushing it? Am I going too far with this blame I keep throwing at him over Riley?
I don't know. But the bitterness is there, clinging like old smoke.
He still hung around Cole even after everything that bastard did to Riley. After sending him to get beaten half alive, after taking him in and spitting him out, after using him like he was disposable. Eddie stayed. Eddie always stayed.
And when we fought in the cemetery—when I thought maybe I'd finally knocked some sense into him—I still watched him go back to Cole. Watched him crawl back to that fucking life like it was the only place he knew how to exist.
He used to look at me like I was stupid for being hopeful, stupid for defending Riley, stupid for believing there was something better out there. Meanwhile, he kept stabbing Riley's memory over and over and calling it survival.
Is it fair of me to hold onto this anger? Is it fair to blame him for actions he thought kept him alive?
If he texted me I'm alive, I'd probably exhale and call it nothing. Which means it's something.
Maybe I'm a hypocrite. Because wasn't I doing the same? Wasn't I also swallowing whatever poison life handed me and calling it necessary?
All these contradictions float around in my head like a swarm I can't swat away. Too many thoughts pressing against each other. Too many emotions tearing at the seams.
Maybe I should stop caring altogether.
Riley is gone. It's been long enough that the grief doesn't come with teeth anymore. I still miss him—Hell, I miss him—but it's quieter now. The kind of missing that sits in the corner of a room instead of taking up the whole space.
It doesn't feel as sharp. It doesn't feel as loud.
Maybe one day I'll get all the way there—past grief, past anger, past guilt—into that place where pain doesn't hit at all.
Peace or vacancy—some days I can't tell the difference.
Maybe one day, when the numbness wins, I won't feel Riley's absence or Eddie's betrayal or any of it.
Poppy shifted again, nuzzling her cheek deeper into my lap, trusting me in a way I don't trust myself. My hand kept moving through her hair, steady and gentle.
Outside, a breeze brushed the glass of the window. Inside, I sat with her weight soft against me and that thought echoing beneath every other:
Maybe numbness is coming for me. And maybe—I'm not sure I'll fight it when it does.