Wildflower Run

Los Angeles was always a little too bright from Sloane Tate's balcony, the city spread below her like a living constellation of headlights streaming along the freeways, billboards glowing, windows lit in tall glass towers. The sky was a dull purple haze, the stars mostly swallowed by light pollution, but the palm trees that stood guard along the street below swayed slowly in the warm night air like they were tired too. It was both beautiful and exhausting.

Behind her, the sliding glass doors reflected her outline: tall, slim, dressed in a thin satin robe that fell to mid-thigh. Her reflection looked like it belonged here. She didn't feel like she did. Her bedroom was the kind people posted on the internet to make strangers jealous. A tufted cream headboard rose nearly to the ceiling, framed by molded panels painted a soft, expensive looking white. The king sized bed beneath it was layered in textures. Crisp white sheets, a pale blush duvet, a folded cream knit throw at the end, and an army of pillows in varying shapes and fabrics: velvet, linen, faux fur, all arranged like they'd been styled for a photo shoot.

Across from the bed, a sleek marble fireplace sat unused, more decorative than functional, its mantel lined with candles she never lit and framed photos of Paris she hadn't chosen. Above it, a framed flat-screen TV hung in perfect alignment, black and glossy. A small sitting area took up the space in front of the fireplace. Two low, cream chairs with gold legs, a round glass table between them, a stack of untouched coffee table books fanned just so. Overhead, a crystal chandelier floated from the ceiling, draped with tear drop shaped crystals catching the light and scattering tiny reflections across the walls like stars. In the far corner, her vanity gleamed under its own halo of light. A wide mirror framed in soft bulbs glowed warm and flattering, turning the white lacquered surface into something almost clinical in its cleanliness. Brushes arranged in acrylic cups, compacts lined up in precise rows, perfume bottles displayed like a curated collection. Her walk-in closet stood slightly ajar, a thin strip of light spilling out onto the bedroom carpet. Through the narrow opening, she could see rows of color coordinated clothing. Whites, creams, soft pastels, then darker tones hanging in perfect lines. Shoes sat on back lit shelves like art pieces. Heels, boots, sneakers, each pair angled just right. It was all hers, but none of it felt like it belonged to her.

She exhaled and turned away from the balcony, sliding the glass door shut until it clicked softly into place. The distant hum of the city vanished, cut off by layers of insulated glass. The world outside dimmed, and her universe shrank to four walls and the faint buzz of the vanity lights. She crossed the plush rug, the fibers soft against her bare feet, and sank onto the vanity stool. The mirror flooded her face with warm light. For a moment, she just stared at herself. If looks could solve anything, her life would've been perfect. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in thick, dark waves she'd painstakingly curled and brushed out until they looked artfully undone.

Under the soft bulbs, the color deepened into near black, with threads of auburn glinting where the light caught at the ends. She'd parted it slightly off center, the front pieces smoothing forward to frame her face in glossy arcs that looked effortless and felt like work. Her skin, under the foundation, was naturally warm and dusted with freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her cheekbones were angled and pronounced, a makeup artist's dream, sharpened by contour and softened by peach toned blush. Her nose was small and straight, just imperfect enough to look real. Her eyes were the thing people always commented on first. Emerald green, rimmed in dark lashes, some hers, some helped along with extensions wide, bright and expressive no matter how hard she tried to dim them. Tonight she'd added winged liner that tilted their shape upward, smudged a soft bronze shadow into the crease, dabbed shimmer onto the inner corners. They looked dramatic, like they belonged on a red carpet. The problem was they also looked tired.

She watched them in the mirror as she leaned forward, adding one last coat of mascara. A tiny smudge of black flicked onto her lid. She cursed under her breath, grabbed a cotton swab, and cleaned it carefully. Her hand was steadier than she felt.

"You look fine," she whispered at her reflection.

"You look great." She didn't believe herself, but she knew how to fake it.

Her gaze drifted past her face, to the bed behind her in the mirror. Lying there, draped over a hanger as if it were art instead of clothing, was the dress. Champagne silk, barely there straps, a neckline that dipped low enough to make a statement and a hem that would ride higher the moment she walked. When it moved, it caught light in a way that made it look almost liquid, flowing over her fingers when she'd tested it in front of the store mirror. Her mother had nodded once in approval when she'd stepped out of the fitting room weeks ago.

"It's elegant enough," she'd said, already checking an email on her phone. "Put it on the pile."

Quality time. Sloane stood, shrugging the robe off her shoulders and letting it fall in a whisper to the floor. Cool air slid over her skin. She picked up the dress, unzipped the back, and stepped into it.

The silk climbed her body, hugging every line and curve until it settled into place as if it had always been meant for her. She tugged it up over her chest, adjusted the straps, and turned to inspect herself in the mirror from all angles. Her collarbones flashed under the lights. Her waist dipped inward, her hips smoothing out beneath the fabric. The hem skimmed her upper thigh, shorter at the sides when she shifted her weight. She slipped on the strappy nude heels waiting beside her bed and straightened. The extra height elongated her legs, making her already long frame look even taller.

She knew objectively that she was beautiful. People told her often enough. They told her in different ways. Compliments, stares, the subtle way conversations shifted when she entered a room. No matter how many times someone said it, it had never once quieted the thought that hummed in the back of her mind. "If you weren't pretty, would they notice you at all?"

A knock sounded against her open bedroom door. Two short taps, no pause. Her mother.

"Sloane?"

Her mother stepped inside without waiting, wearing a navy sheath dress and pearl earrings, her hair in a sleek twist. Her lipstick was a shade darker than usual, the only sign she'd had a long day. She took in the room in one sweeping look, then let her gaze land on Sloane. Her eyes flicked once down her daughter's body and back up.

"Turn." Sloane turned, slowly, completing a full circle like a mannequin on a display stand.

Her mother hummed under her breath rolling her eyes. "Well. It's... dramatic."

"Is that good or bad?" Sloane asked seeking approval.... as always.

Her mother shrugged a narrow shoulder. "You're eighteen. You'll be surrounded by idiots. It's fine."

Approval, in its cold, half hearted way.

"Your father and I are going out," her mother added. "We'll be entertaining clients. You know the rules."

"Don't drink, don't let anyone post anything stupid, don't end up in handcuffs, don't embarrass you. I know I know." Sloane recited automatically rolling her eyes and letting out a scoff.

Her mother gave her a look that might, on a warmer woman, have been amusement. "Exactly."

"Where are you going?" Sloane asked, even though she knew the question didn't matter.

"A dinner downtown." Her mother's hand smoothed the front of her dress, her eyes drifting toward the hallway as if she were already gone. "Your father needs to be in good standing with this firm. They're brutal."

"So are you," Sloane said, but only in her head.

"Don't be late," her mother added, already turning away. "Text when you're back."

"Sure."

Her mother paused at the door. "And Sloane?"

Sloane straightened a little. "Yeah?"

"Try not to make anyone think we've lost control of you."

The words dropped like ice. Before she could respond, her mother was gone, heels clicking down the hall. Sloane stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, then turned back to the mirror.

"Right," she said quietly. "No loss of control."

She picked up her clutch, tucked her phone and lip gloss inside, and headed downstairs. The house looked different when you were leaving it alone. The foyer was a canyon of white and glass, the double doors looming at the end. Her father's voice came from his office. Measured, clipped, confident enough to fill a courtroom. She didn't slow, just slipped out while he was mid-sentence, the door closing behind her with a soft thud.

Outside, the night wrapped around her like a warm blanket. A black SUV idled at the curb, bass thumping faintly from inside. The passenger window rolled down, and Brooke leaned over the console, grinning.

Brooke looked like she'd been handcrafted in a Sunset Boulevard lab specifically to thrive in Los Angeles. Her honey blonde hair was pulled into a high, messy ponytail that somehow looked intentional. Face framing pieces curled just enough to suggest she'd spent an hour on them. Bronze highlighter shimmered along her cheekbones, catching every flash of streetlight. Her lips were glossy, plump, and tinted the perfect peachy nude that only existed in LA makeup tutorials.

She wore a glittering silver top that slipped off one shoulder, paired with ripped black jeans and stacked platform boots that made her nearly eye level with half the boys at school. A thin gold necklace rested at the hollow of her throat, layered with two shorter chains that jingled when she moved. Her nails were almond shaped and painted a glossy black, each one dotted with tiny rhinestones. She looked like a girl who never apologized for taking up space, who never questioned if she belonged, who thrived in neon lights and loud music.

"Get in, disaster," Brooke called, pushing her sunglasses onto her head. "You're late."

Sloane laughed, the sound brittle even to her own ears. "My mom wanted to approve the outfit. You know how she gets."

"She let you leave in that?" Brooke's dark eyes widened theatrically as she looked her over. "Wow. Growth."

"Don't worry, she sent her disapproval in spirit," Sloane said, tugging the hem of her dress down as she climbed into the seat.

Brooke shook her head. "Whatever. You look insane. In a good way. Like, 'main character in a big network TV show' insane."

Sloane rolled her eyes but felt a tiny spark of warmth at the comment. "You look hot too."

"I look like I lost a fight with a Sephora display," Brooke replied. "You look like... if money was a person."

"That's just my face," Sloane joked weakly.

Brooke studied her a moment longer. "You sure you're okay?"

Sloane watched the gate of her house slide shut in the side mirror. Ahead, the city stretched out in glittering layers, waiting for her like a stage she no longer wanted to perform on. She forced a small smile.

"I'm fine," she lied.

"Okay," Brooke said, turning up the music. "Then let's go be fine somewhere we can make bad decisions."

They pulled away from the curb, and the hills gave way to a greater sprawl, the car gliding down winding roads into the grid below. Streetlights passed in rhythm. Billboards flashed colors into the night. At red lights, Sloane caught glimpses of other lives through windows. Families eating dinner, people laughing around cluttered tables, a couple dancing in a living room.

She looked away.

The closer they got to the party, the louder it became. Before they turned onto the street, they could already hear the low thud of bass. Cars lined both sides of the road. A pair of guys in hoodies sat on the hood of their Tesla, passing a vape back and forth. Girls in tiny dresses and big heels teetered up the hill, laughing. The mansion hosting the party towered above them as they pulled in. Stone columns, expansive balconies, fairy lights crisscrossing the front lawn like they'd been strung up for a wedding.

"Subtle," Brooke muttered, finding a spot halfway down the street. "They really said, 'rob me first.'"

They got out and started up the slope. Gravel crunched under their shoes. The closer they came, the more the night vibrated.

"Ready?" Brooke asked.

For what, exactly, Sloane wasn't sure. But she nodded.

"Yeah."

Brooke looped her arm through Sloane's. "Then come on, Tate. Let's go remind everyone why they envy us."

Sloane plastered on the smile she knew people expected and walked into the noise. The front door stood open, spilling warm light and sweaty air. Inside, the foyer was crowded with teenagers clustered around the staircase, laughing, shouting, posing for photos. Music boomed from speakers hidden somewhere deeper in the house.

"Sloane!" A girl with glossy black hair and a rhinestone choker rushed up to her, eyes bright. "Holy crap. That dress is .... you're glowing."

Sloane laughed. "You're drunk."

"I can be both," the girl replied, hugging her with the wobbly enthusiasm of the very drunk. "Come do shots."

Brooke peeled off with a "Don't die!" over her shoulder, already swept into the current of bodies.

Sloane let herself be pulled through the house. Every room they passed felt like a version of the life she grew up in. Too big, too polished, filled with furniture no one respected and art no one could name. Except here, everything was spilling, off balance, dangerous in a way her parents' house never allowed.

In the kitchen, someone shouted over the music, "We need more ice!" In the living room, a couple made out on a white couch. In a corner, three guys argued about which college had the best frat scene. The kitchen counter was lined with bottles, some half empty, some nearly gone. Red cups littered every flat surface. The girl in the rhinestone choker poured something clear into a line of cups and shoved one into Sloane's hand.

"To terrible choices," she said.

Sloane hesitated only a beat, then tossed it back. The liquid burned, harsh and bitter, lighting a small fire in her chest. It wasn't the worst feeling she'd had today.

Hours blurred into one another. The house breathed around her, hot and alive. She danced when people pulled her into the swaying mass in the makeshift dance area. She smiled for photos when someone lifted a phone, catching herself on screen with perfect hair and perfect makeup and a laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. Every time someone said, "You look incredible," or "I wish I was you," it landed on the surface of her like confetti. Pretty, weightless and gone too quickly. She lost track of Brooke. She lost track of time. At some point, she drifted out onto the back patio.

The backyard dropped away in tiers. First a stone terrace lined with string lights and oversized chairs, then a glimmering pool lit from within, then manicured hedges giving way to a steep fall and, beyond that, the city. Out here, the air moved. It brushed cool fingers over her bare shoulders, slipped under the hem of her dress, carried the faint scent of chlorinated water, night blooming flowers, and smoke. She walked to the edge of the terrace and wrapped her arms around herself, fingers pressing into the smooth silk at her waist. Below, the city sprawled, alive and indifferent. Up here, surrounded by an expensive fence and too-loud music, she felt like she was standing in a snow globe. Pretty, contained, entirely disconnected from the real world.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch. She opened it.

Mom: "Be home by 1. Don't make this worse."

No "Are you okay?" "Where are you?" "Call me." Just a command, an assumption, and the weight of their disappointment packed into one text.

Her chest tightened. For no particular reason, a memory flashed across her mind. A memory of her being ten years old, standing on a stage in a blue dress at a school recital, scanning the auditorium for her parents. Seeing empty chairs in the row they were supposed to be in. Watching other kids fling themselves into waiting arms afterward while she walked alone to the parking lot, the sitter standing there instead. They'd sent flowers the next day. No apology. No explanation. Just another grand gesture for an empty space. Sloane blinked hard, chasing the memory away. She tipped her head back and stared at the purple blur of sky. "I'm fine," she told herself again. "I'm always fine."

She wasn't.

The sirens cut through the song before she even processed the sound. At first, they were a distant wail under the thump of bass. Then they grew louder, insistent, impossible to ignore. Red and blue light flickered against the white stone of the house, against the surface of the pool, against the faces of the kids out on the deck. Someone at the door shouted, "Cops!" Panic snapped through the crowd like a power line.

The music cut out mid-beat. People scattered. A girl shrieked. Someone knocked over a glass table, sending it crashing into the stones in a spray of shards. A boy tripped, got up, took off barefoot, leaving bloody footprints behind.

"Sloane!" Brooke's voice cut through the chaos somewhere behind her. "Sloane, where....." But the rest of the sentence got swallowed by the stampede.

The yard exploded into motion. Some kids bolted back through the house. Others vaulted the low fence at the edge of the property, disappearing into the darkness. A few froze like deer, unable to decide. Sloane didn't move. She stood at the edge of the terrace, the pool glimmering beside her, the city glowing below, the sirens closing in. Red and blue flashed against her skin. A police spotlight swung across the yard, over the line of hedges, over the pool, the chairs, the tangle of panicked teenagers and landed on her. The dress turned into a beacon under it, shimmering like she'd been dipped in light. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that blinding white circle and the sound of her own pulse in her ears.

"Hey!" a voice shouted. Male. Strong. "You. Stay where you are."

Her limbs felt heavy, distant. She blinked, hand rising instinctively to shield her eyes. The beam burned against her palm. An officer advanced up the patio steps, flanked by another at a distance. The first was tall and broad, shoulders squared beneath the dark uniform. His expression was serious but not cruel, eyes shadowed under the brim of his hat. He slowed when he reached her.

"What's your name?" he asked, voice cutting through the chaos.

"Sloane," she said, her throat dry. "Sloane Tate."

The second word hung between them like a confession. His jaw shifted, a muscle ticking there. Recognition or resignation. She couldn't tell.

"Tate," he repeated. "As in...."

"Yes," she said, suddenly sharp rolling her eyes. "Them."

He exhaled through his nose. "All right. You're coming with us."

"BUT... I didn't..." Her words tangled on her tongue. "I wasn't......I didn't do anything."

He didn't sound accusing, just tired. "You're underage at a party with alcohol and noise complaints that could be heard from three blocks away. We're not discussing fault. We're clearing the scene."

He reached for her arm. His grip was firm, not painful.

"You can walk," he said. "Or I can escort you. It'll be easier if you walk."

Her gaze flicked past him to the house. People still trickled out in ones and twos, some crying, some laughing hysterically, some talking too fast about parents and lawyers and "this is bullshit"

Brooke appeared in the doorway for a second, scanning the yard. Their eyes met. Brooke started toward her, but a different officer intercepted, holding a hand up.

"Inside," that officer said. "We'll talk to you after."

Brooke's mouth shaped her name. Sloane shook her head once, a tiny movement. It was enough to say don't. It was enough to say go. The officer at her side squeezed her arm gently. "Come on."

Her heel caught on a crack in the stone as he guided her down the steps, and she stumbled. His other hand shot out, bracing her.

"Easy," he murmured.

She swallowed, her cheeks burning. She could feel eyes on her from every direction. A hundred people watching and recording the girl in the silk dress being walked to the cruiser.

Someone whispered, "She's so screwed."

Someone else said, "Nah, her parents will fix it."

The words cut in different ways.

At the front of the house, two patrol cars idled, lights spinning silently now that the sirens had been cut. The officer opened the back door of the nearest one.

"Sit down," he said.

Sloane hesitated, fingers gripping the edge of the door. "Am I......am I arrested?"

His expression softened, barely. "You're being detained while we sort things out. It's not the end of the world." It already felt like the end of hers.

She folded herself into the backseat. The vinyl stuck to the backs of her thighs, cool and unforgiving. The dress rode higher. She tried to tug it down, but there was nowhere for it to go. The officer shut the door with a low, solid thud that vibrated through her ribs. The world outside became muffled by glass and metal. She watched the front yard tilt away as the cruiser backed out, the crowd shrinking, the spinning lights smearing across her vision. Her heart finally broke its rigid restraint. Tears sprang up, hot and unbidden, blurring the whole city into streaks of color. She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth to stop the sound. The officer slid into the front seat and spoke into the radio, his voice drifting back to her in muffled fragments. Dispatch codes. Addresses. Words that might as well have been in another language. He glanced at her in the rear-view mirror.

"You okay back there?" he asked.

She nodded out of reflex, then remembered he could see her. "Not really," she said hoarsely.

He huffed a quiet breath. "Yeah. Didn't think so."

He looked like he wanted to say more, then didn't. His attention snapped back to the road as they pulled away. They turned onto a more familiar street, one she'd driven down a hundred times. From the backseat of a squad car, the world looked different. Houses she'd thought of as normal now seemed ostentatious. People walking their dogs paused to stare, their eyes flicking from the cruiser to her face behind the glass. She tried not to look back. She failed.

Every red light stretched on forever. Each time they slowed, she caught sight of herself reflected in the window. Eyes ringed dark, lashes clumped from tears, the once flawless liner smudged under her lower lash line. Her lips had lost half their gloss. Her cheeks were flushed, not with the intentional warmth of blush, but with shame. She looked less like a statue tonight. More like a girl. The hills rose up again as they climbed back toward her neighborhood. The silence in the car grew heavier.

"You live with your folks?" the officer asked finally.

"Unfortunately," she said.

"They home?"

"Maybe, who knows they're probably with a client per usual" she murmured while rolling her eyes.

He didn't comment on that. "All right. We'll talk to them, hand you over, and you can call it a night. Sound fair?"

Her chest twisted. "Sure."

Fair, she thought, had never really been part of the equation.

The cruiser turned into the long driveway she'd walked and driven up her whole life. Tonight, the palms looked taller. The house glowed brighter, but not warmly. The front of it, with its tall windows and cold light, looked like the opening shot of a movie she didn't want to star in. The car rolled to a stop near the steps. The officer cut the engine and got out. A second later, he opened her door.

"Come on," he said quietly. "You're almost done."

She stepped down carefully, heels clicking into the stone. For a moment, she stood there smelling the familiar faint note of lemon cleaner drifting from the house, feeling the warm night on her skin, listening to the soft rustle of the palm fronds above.

Then the front door opened. Her parents stepped out together. Her father was still in his charcoal suit, tie loosened but neat. His dark hair was perfectly in place. His face gave nothing away. Her mother had changed into a silk robe, pale gray that matched the cool stone beneath their feet. Her hair, freed from its twist, fell in smooth waves over her shoulders. She looked like she'd stepped out of an ad for expensive sleeping pills. The one thing both their expressions had in common was a complete lack of surprise.

The officer cleared his throat. "Mr. and Mrs. Tate?"

Her father nodded. "Officer."

"We received multiple noise complaints about a party in the hills," the officer said. "Your daughter was present. She was cooperative. We brought her home to you." His tone gave Sloane more grace than her parents' faces did.

Her father didn't look at her. "We appreciate you returning her."

"We didn't catch her drinking and she doesn't seem intoxicated," the officer added. "No charges are being filed at this time. She's just... caught in the net."

Sloane flinched.

Her mother's gaze flicked over her at last, taking in the smeared makeup and wrinkled dress. Her lip curled. "We'll take it from here."

The officer hesitated. "If you're concerned, I can give you a number to"

"No need," her father cut in smoothly. "We handle our own."

There it was. The line that held too many meanings.

The officer nodded slowly. "All right. Good night, Miss Tate."

She managed a weak, "Good night," as he walked back to the car.

When the cruiser finally pulled away and disappeared down the hill, the silence that settled over the front steps was suffocating. Her father turned his gaze on her fully for the first time. It wasn't furious. That might have been easier. It was clinical, assessing, like she was a piece of evidence in a case he'd already decided to lose.

"We're done," he said.

Sloane blinked. "Done with what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely at her. "The parties. The calls. The drama. We are done."

Her mother crossed her arms, silk rustling. "You will be leaving for Texas in the morning."

The words hit her like a slap. The world narrowed to their faces, the glow of the porch light, the thud of her own heart.

"Texas?" she repeated. "You're... sending me to Texas?"

"To your grandparents," her father said. "They've agreed to take you in."

Her mind flooded with half memories: summers when she was small, running through tall grass on a ranch before school and obligations swallowed their visits. Phone calls that had grown infrequent as her parents careers climbed higher. The warm, soft voices of her grandparents, distorted by distance and poor reception.

"So you had this pre-planned. I JUST got in trouble. Why would you call them to send me away...Why?" she asked, even though she knew pieces of the answer.

Her mother looked almost offended by the question. "Because whatever is happening here isn't working. You are out of control. I knew the moment you stepped out of this house in that dress tonight would end just like this.... so yes, I called them because you can't seem to get it together."

"I went to a party mom" she said. "Like every other person in that house. Don't be dramatic."

"And the police brought you home," her father replied. "Because our name is on their lips when they hear it."

"There it is," she said, a hollow laugh scraping out of her throat and her hands thrown up in the air. "That's the real problem. If you cared half as much about me as your stupid namesake this would not be how tonight ended"

"You're making this about you," her mother said sharply.

"I am me," Sloane snapped back. "Who else should I make it about? Someone has to make it about me because you sure don't!"

Her father's jaw clenched. "Enough! You will not speak to your mother that way."

There was a hundred things she wanted to say. None of them would matter. None of them would change anything about the way they saw her. Loud, messy, inconvenient in a house that prized clean lines and quiet rooms.

He reached into his robe pocket and pulled out a credit card, setting it carefully on the entryway table by the door. It gleamed under the light.

"This is yours now," he said. "Use it for what you need when you're there. Clothes, travel, emergencies. There will be a driver here at seven in the morning to take you to the airport. Your mother has already booked the flight."

"And that's it?" she asked, voice thin. "You're just... shoving a credit card at me shipping me off like a package you don't want to sign for anymore?"

Her mother's lips thinned. "You are overreacting."

"I am reacting," Sloane said. "For once"

Her father didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. "Go to bed, Sloane."

She stared at them. These two people who shared her last name, her eyebrows, the shape of her jaw. These two people who could stand inches from her and still not see her.

"Good night," she said, not because she meant it, but because there was nothing left to say. She picked up the card, feeling the weight of it in her palm, and walked inside. The marble was cold beneath her bare feet. The house felt like it always had. Too big, too quiet, too pristine. Only now the emptiness didn't settle around her. It pressed against her, a wall she couldn't get out from under.

She climbed the stairs, opened her bedroom door, and closed it softly behind her. The silence inside was different from the silence outside. Out there, it had been full of things unsaid. In here, it was full of things she'd never gotten to say. The mirror still glowing. Her reflection stared back. Dress wrinkled from the squad car, makeup smudged, eyes red. She looked ruined.

She stepped out of the heels and let them fall over on their sides, standing there for a few long seconds with her toes pressed into the thick rug, trying to feel grounded. Then she crossed the room, grabbed the zipper at the back of the dress, and tugged it down. The silk fell away from her shoulders, pooling soundlessly at her feet like the ending of a scene.

She didn't bother washing off her makeup. She pulled on an oversized T-shirt, crawled onto the bed, and curled into herself.

In the dark, without the lights and mirrors and city glowing below, there was nothing left to distract her from the truth. Her parents had chosen their reputation over their daughter and in the morning, they were sending her away. The tears came, hot and unrelenting. She buried her face in the pillows to muffle the sound. Her shoulders shook. Her chest hurt. Her throat burned. She cried for the party that had never actually been fun. She cried for the girl everyone saw and no one knew. She cried for the little kid in the blue recital dress, standing alone in a crowded lobby. She cried for the version of herself that still believed, somewhere deep down, that if she was perfect enough, they would finally stay.