I rinse my mouth with metallic-tasting tap water and force myself to look up again.
She’s still there. The girl in the mirror.
And she looks exactly like someone who’s about to make the same mistake twice.
I stare harder.
Still Blair.
Still standing.
Just barely.
I swipe a streak of black from under my eye with the back of my hand, but it only makes things worse.
Doesn’t matter. I’ve done the walk of shame so many times, I should’ve charged it rent. Got clean for a while—gold star, round of applause—then relapsed like a fucking pro. Turns out rock bottom has a goddamn revolving door.
I exhale, hit the lights, and push the door open.
Sunlight slams into me like a goddamn accusation.
I raise a hand to shield my eyes, breathing in deep.
Sea salt.
Weed.
Desperation.
Fucking California.
Home sweet hell.
I don’t remember how I ended up at that afterparty.
Some run-down house in a part of town where streetlights go to die and the sidewalk smells like piss and stale beer. The stereo’s still bumping something bass-heavy and broken. Someone's passed out in the hallway, hugging a bottle like it's a lover. Another guy’s drooling on a pizza box in the in the living room. A girl in nothing but glitter and one fishnet leg is curled up under the kitchen table like she belongs there.
No one knows whose house it is.
No one cares.
But this, I remember.
My boots stick to the floor on the way out. Something slick and sharp beneath my heel. Broken glass. A puddle of something amber. My best guess? Tequila, tears, and trauma. Classic combo.
Then—oh hey, my platform.
Just lying in the hallway like it took a nap mid-chaos, half-submerged in someone’s regrets. I scoop it up, wipe off whatever’s on the sole (don’t look too close), and shove my foot back into it. It sticks for a second. Like it’s judging me, then slides into place with a resigned little squeak.
Next to it, my purse. Slumped against the wall like it’s been through war. I grab it, already knowing what’s inside because it’s always the same: chaos in a zippered shell. Gum wrappers. An old eyeliner cap. A crumpled receipt from the laundromat three days ago—because yes, even a walking disaster like me occasionally washes her clothes, thank you very much. And then, at the bottom, glittering like regret in a rave light?—
A holographic baggy.
Empty.
Except for a whisper of pink dust clinging to the inside like a memory I’m not ready to shake.
I rip off last night's entry bracelet, and stuff it into the purse with the others. A collection of bad ideas on woven plastic. Souvenirs from nights that almost took me out.
