- twenty - alex
Dana is packing.
For once, she's not running her mouth a mile a minute. She's not oversharing. No weird tangents about the way certain colors "feel" or how Lord Muffin's tail twitches in Morse code.
Just silence.
Well—almost silence.
The wheels of her suitcase make this pathetic little squeak as she zips it shut.
"So," I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the way her fingers linger on the zipper. "How long am I being blessed with your absence?"
She glares at me over her shoulder. Not full-force, just a glance. "Rude."
I smirk. "I prefer honest."
Dana sighs, shoving a sweater into the outer pocket of her bag. "I don't know. A few days. Maybe a week."
"Yay, finally. Some peace and quiet."
She doesn't respond. Just bites her lip and smooths down the straps of her bag. And I know that look- she's worried.
I nudge her suitcase with my foot looking away for a moment. "What, afraid I'll burn the place down without you?"
Her lips twitch, barely. "Wouldn't put it past you."
"Fair." I tilt my head, watching the way the soft glow of the bedside lamp catches the strands of her hair. "You're going with Kyle?"
"Yes."
"You sure he's not gonna ditch you at a gas station?"
Dana huffs, brushing a curl out of her face. "He's not you, Alex."
"You have too much faith in people."
She zips up her bag, then exhales, a bit softer this time. "Kyle is family. You know, you could just say 'travel safe' like a normal person. You don't always have to be like that."
I scoff. "Boring."
She shakes her head, a small smile ghosting her lips before fading again. "Are you gonna miss me?"
I smirk. "Obviously."
Dana snorts, biting her lip as her big doe-like eyes meet mine, and I cannot look away. They fucking suck me in, warm and deep and too damn expressive. "Liar."
I shrug. "I mean, what will I do without constant background noise? The symphony of Dana Archer: a never-ending performance."
She huffs. "You'll survive."
"Barely."
A flicker of amusement passes through her expression.
She zips up her bag, then straightens, brushing her hands over her beige skirt. The movement makes her loose ponytail shift, a few strands falling forward to frame her face. My fingers twitch with the impulse to push them back but I hold myself back.
"I need you to do something for me."
Of course she does.
I arch a brow. "Depends."
Dana turns, scooping up the tiny, barely-alive-looking ball of fur from her bed. Lord Muffin blinks up at me like she, too, is exhausted by my existence.
Same, mutt.
"Take care of her, please?" Dana says, stroking the kitten's ears.
I stare at the little thing. Frail. Dumb. Kind of ugly. I don't even have to think twice when I say, "No."
Dana shoves Muffin into my hands, her eyes hard.
"Yes," she says as she glares at me.
I sigh, looking at the kitten.
She just stares at me, unbothered. "If she dies, that's on you," I tell her.
Dana crosses her arms. "If she dies, that's on you."
"Debatable."
She rolls her eyes. "Just feed her and don't let her get lost."
"Fine. But after this, I don't owe you anything."
She smiles a little, something fond flickering in her eyes. "Sure, Alex."
She grabs her bag, gives Lord Muffin one last scratch behind the ears, and then she's gone. The door clicks shut, leaving silence in her wake.
I exhale. Finally. Peace.
Lord Muffin is asleep. The room is quiet. I can finally smoke inside without Dana choking herself to death.
But for some reason, it feels. . . off.
Empty.
My gaze flickers to the side of the room she just left, where the faintest trace of her scent lingers. Familiar. Sweet.
Nah. I'm probably just going crazy because I haven't smoked yet.
. . .
The music's vibrating through the floor, the bass a steady pulse against my chest.
The place is a fucking madhouse, people grinding, laughing, shouting, losing themselves in the chaos. But it's just noise to me. Just background.
I'm scanning the crowd for a new face, a buyer, a friend, whatever the hell I can grab tonight. And then I spot Damien, leaning against the wall with that same smirk plastered across his face.
The one he always wears when he's got something to ask.
Damien is a dealer like myself, among other things. He is also the one who introduced me to this life back in highschool.
"Alex," he calls out, voice rough, but he's already grinning like everything's fine. He's too fucking good at that.
I weave through the people and make my way over to him, the crowd parting like they know I don't have the time for their bullshit.
Damien's face falls a little when he sees me, a flash of something darker in his eyes before it's gone. I don't catch it.
"Hey, man." His voice drops, like he's unsure. "Got a minute?"
I tilt my head, studying him. "Always."
He shifts, glancing down at the ground, like he's weighing his words. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and there's something. . . off. I can't place it, but it feels wrong.
"Look, I hate asking you for this. Again.
" He pauses, and when he looks back up at me, his eyes are a little red, like he's been up all night.
"But things are getting pretty tight, you know?
I—I'm trying to help my mom, but it's hard, man.
Bills stacking up. She's still sick, Alex.
" His voice cracks on the last part, and for a second, I almost believe it.
The sadness in his eyes looks fucking real.
I know Damien. He's always got something going on, always playing the 'struggling' card, but this time? I don't know. It doesn't feel like a game. He looks. . . tired. Real tired.
I pull a cigarette out of my pocket, lighting it as I watch him. "How much?"
Damien glances around, his face pinched like he's embarrassed. He looks at the ground again, and there's that pitiful vulnerability to him. "I need. . . four grand, man. Just for the next few days. I'll pay you back, I swear."
I'm not an idiot. I know this kind of shit adds up, but right now? He's my fucking friend. And no matter how much I tell myself I shouldn't, I can't stand the thought of him struggling.
I pull out my wallet, tossing him the money without a second thought. He takes it without hesitation, but then, for the briefest moment, his shoulders slump, like the weight of it really hits him.
"Thanks, man. I don't know what I'd do without you," he mutters, and there's a strange edge to his voice, but I don't pick up on it.
He gives me a tight smile, and before I can say anything else, he's gone, melting into the crowd.
I watch him go, feeling the weight of the night press down on me again. The music blares, the bodies move, and I go back to finding buyers.
. . .
I'm sitting on the edge of the rooftop, the city sprawled out beneath me like a glittering sea of lights.
The breeze stirs the air, making it feel cooler than it should be for the middle of the night. The kind of cool that sneaks up on you, reminding you that even when you're surrounded by luxury, there are things you can't control.
I pull out the container of leftover Chinese takeout, tearing open the lid.
The familiar taste of something quick and disposable. Something that doesn't ask anything of me.
But as I shove a bite in my mouth, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, half-expecting it to be Dana. I don't know why—maybe some last-minute update or an accidental text. But no, it's just a group chat notification from Damien.
I glance at the screen. He's asking if I've heard from some random buyer, followed by a couple of laughing emojis.
I sigh, sliding my thumb over the screen to dismiss it, but then my eyes linger on Dana's contact name.
I haven't heard from her. At all. And as blissful as I had thought it would be, it fucking wasn't.
For a second, I wonder if I should check in on her—just a quick text, something casual, if she's okay. But then I roll my eyes at myself. Since when did I become so fucking pathetic? A pussy.
I scoff under my breath, shaking my head. What the hell would I even say?
I toss the phone down beside me, not caring where it lands, and take another bite of food. The taste isn't as good as I remember. But I finish it, anyway. The skyline still gleams, but everything feels empty in a way I can't quite explain.
As I finish the last of the noodles, I lean back, watching the lights flicker from a distance.
For a second, I think about texting her again—just to check if she made it there okay, if everything's fine. But I don't.
Instead, I lean back further, letting the night swallow the thoughts I don't want to think.
. . .
I fold.
I press her contact.
The little green text bubble stares at me for a moment before I tap out: "You okay?"
It's casual, so stupid, fucking idiotic, but I hit send before I can stop myself.
I'm a fucking pussy.
For a second, nothing happens. And then the bubble appears. She's typing.
But before I can read it, I slam the phone down beside me again, gripping my hair. What is she fucking doing to me?
I always thought I'd prefer silence over her constant blabbering, her never-ending stream of words about nothing and everything. Her weird-ass tangents.
But why the fuck do I find myself hating the silence now?