ʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴘᴇᴇᴅ | 𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣 𝙟𝙖𝙚𝙜𝙚𝙧

𝙈𝙀𝘿𝘿𝙇𝙀 𝘼𝘽𝙊𝙐𝙏

003, 𝙈𝙀𝘿𝘿𝙇𝙀 𝘼𝘽𝙊𝙐𝙏

.⋆𐙚 🍒

I'VE DONE A LOT OF STUPID SHIT IN MY LIFE.

Once during high school I made the brilliant decision to climb onto the roof of my house to smoke a blunt Marlo had gifted me for my birthday. I sat there for ten minutes, shoes slipping against the shingles, convinced the wind might be able to carry me somewhere else. It wasn't until I was high that I realized getting down was impossible. An hour later, shivering from the cold, my mom noticed I was missing from bed—and somehow found me on the roof. She called the fire department, who made a huge deal out of the whole thing, and I, being so fucking paranoid, started screaming at them like I was being abducted.

Once, I let Hitch talk me into sneaking into a waterpark at two in the morning. The water was freezing, our clothes piled on the edge like discarded versions of ourselves. We barely got five minutes before security showed up and chased us. We ran barefoot through the park, mascara-streaked and breathless, laughing like the world couldn't touch us.

Once, I even told a boy I loved him. Quietly. Softly. Like maybe if I whispered it, it wouldn't feel so humiliating. But fuck the universe—because he laughed. Laughed, and told me to get out of his house.

But none of it—not the rooftop, not the waterpark, not even that heartbreak—compares to what I did that night. The Mustang. The keys. The engine roaring under me like a live wire. 

I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't mean for it matter. But it did. 

Because here's the thing they don't tell you about choices:
They don't just end when you make them.
They echo.
Like a ripple across water.
Like a spiderweb trembling from the frantic wings of a trapped fly.
Like a match lit too close to something flammable.

One moment—one yes—and everything changes. 

You think it's harmless. You think it's temporary. But that choice winds itself into places you never meant to touch. It latches on. Pulls at everything you thought was steady. 

I didn't just get in a car that night. 

I lit a match and set a fire, and now everything smells like smoke. The air. My sheets. My skin. And no matter how hard I try to scrub it off of my soul, the scent lingers.

The moment I stepped into that basement, it was like the world tilted off its axis—everything paused, just for a second. And it happened before we even made eye contact. It was instant, that strange, electric pull. Familiar in a way that made my chest ache. And for a split second, I wondered if I was just desperate for it—to feel something so badly I'd convinced myself this attractive stranger was him. The one who'd been tugging at my thoughts since that night. Since that look.

But then his gaze locked on mine.

And I knew.

I wasn't crazy.

It really was him.

What a small, fucking world.

Sasha squeezed my hand as she dragged me deeper into the basement, practically bouncing with energy, her grip firm and familiar—like we'd known each other for years. We hadn't. Not even close. But apparently that didn't matter. Not to her.

The space was low-lit and hazy, the air thick with a cocktail of smoke and bass. A lava lamp pulsed red in the corner, casting soft, molten glows across the cracked concrete walls. The music upstairs pounded through the floorboards—something grungy and distorted that rattled through my chest. Down here, it smelled like weed, cheap beer, and—strangely—lavender. Bodies were sprawled across couches, cushions, and bean bags like they belonged there, talking, laughing, slouched deep into the kind of comfort that only came from pretending the world outside didn't exist.