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𝕁𝕦𝕟𝕖 𝟛𝕣𝕕, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟛, 𖡡 𝕆𝕕𝕖𝕟𝕤𝕖, 𝔻𝕖𝕟𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕜
I stood in front of my locker, the cold metal of the door pressing against my fingers as I slowly changed into my black cargo pants. The final show day in Denmark. My mind felt distant, hazy, like it was drifting somewhere far from the dressing room. The quiet hum of backstage noise barely registered as I fumbled with the button on my pants.
My eyes flicked up to the small, scratched mirror hanging inside my locker. I stared at my reflection, but it felt as though I was looking at a stranger. The bright red and purple mark on my neck, a stark reminder of last night, blurred in my vision. It looked like a nebula—a swirling mass of color against the pale backdrop of my skin—but my focus was soft, and it didn't fully register what I was seeing.
I blinked, my mind still foggy, trying to snap myself out of the haze. The noise of the locker room was so distant, like white noise humming in the background of my thoughts. I ran my fingers over the fabric of my cargo pants, grounding myself in the familiar texture, but the heaviness in my chest lingered, stubborn.
The sharp sound of the door swinging open snapped me out of my daze. My head jerked toward the entrance, eyes wide as if I'd been caught doing something wrong. Gabriella stepped in, her expression unreadable, a bag slung over her shoulder.
She paused for a moment, her gaze locking with mine. There was a flicker of recognition, but it disappeared almost as fast as it came. Her eyes dropped, avoiding me as she walked across the room to her own locker without a word. The soft shuffle of her footsteps seemed to echo in the tense silence between us.
I swallowed, my throat dry, but didn't say anything. What was there to say after everything that had happened?
Gabriella's movements were purposeful as she opened her locker, the metal creaking slightly. She rummaged through it, the sound of fabric and belongings being gathered filling the room. The weight of the situation hung in the air—she was packing up, emptying her space after being fired last night.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, the tension in the room thick and uncomfortable. My mind raced, but I couldn't find the words, and she didn't look like she wanted to hear them anyway.
Gabriella's movements were sharp, her bitterness palpable in the way she shoved her things into her bag. The tension between us seemed to thicken with each passing second. I could feel the weight of her unspoken words, the sting of resentment that radiated off her in waves.
As she zipped up her bag, she straightened, lingering by her locker for a moment before turning toward me. Her eyes flicked to the hickey on my neck—bright red and purple against my skin—before she stepped closer, her face set in a bitter expression. She pulled something from her bag and held it out in front of me. I blinked, looking down to see a small compact of makeup in her hand.
