She’s in the shower, head tilted back, water too hot, scalding the day off her. Steam clings to her skin like the past—stuff she won’t talk about, stuff she won’t even think about unless it’s three drinks in and someone cute’s asking the right questions. But tonight isn’t about trauma or tragedy—it’s about resurrection. Liquid gold soap sliding down her thighs, like she’s washing off every dull second of the week. She closes her eyes and rewrites herself again. Not sad, not soft, not waiting. Tonight she’s a glitch in the system. Tonight she’s the VIP list.
Out of the shower, she wipes the mirror but doesn’t look yet. Towels wrap tight, but loosely enough to feel like she’s still floating. She pads to her room. Every floorboard creaks like an accomplice. Her closet is chaos: sequins, faux fur, black lace, a little red dress that feels like revenge. She picks up one thing, tosses it. Another. And another. Finally lands on this—this—little white tank with the tiniest rhinestone heart and a pair of shredded denim shorts that she cut herself one summer after a boy broke her playlist. Over it all, a leather jacket with zippers like exclamation points.
She lays the outfit out on her bed and stares at it like a question. What do I want from tonight? A little attention. A little danger. Someone to look at her like they’re seeing the future. Or maybe no one at all—maybe just the city, its buzz and blink, swallowing her whole and spitting her out reborn.
Makeup is a ritual. Foundation like fresh paint. Highlighter on the cheekbones, like she’s catching moonlight. Mascara thick, lashes curled sharp like spider legs. Gloss is sticky-sweet, almost edible. She leans in to the mirror now. It’s not vanity. It’s ceremony. She tilts her head and smiles—not at herself, but at the version she’s becoming.
Music’s back on. Bass heavy. Uffie on the playlist, glitch pop princess with too much attitude and no apologies. She mouths the words like scripture. “I’m not your baby. I’m not your girl. I’m not your anything.” Her phone buzzes. Friends already out. One’s with some guy. Another’s waiting in the car. She’s almost late but not quite. Just enough to make them wait. Just enough to make the night notice her arrival.
Before she leaves, she sprays perfume—wrist, neck, inner thigh. Like casting spells. She checks her phone again. No texts from him. Not that she expected one. Not that she wanted one. Maybe.
She grabs a piece of gum, a jacket she might not need, and her phone like a weapon. Down the stairs, skipping two at a time. Mom yells something generic—“Don’t be stupid!” or “Be safe!” It’s all background noise.
She opens the front door. Cool night air rushes in like applause. City’s out there. Glittering, dangerous, loud. Just like her. She steps outside.
She’s not going out. She’s going in.