𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧' 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝 ─────⋆⋅★𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘺

𝟒𝟏. 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬

The Uber drifted through the quiet streets of Los Angeles, its headlights cutting through the chilly November night. Suki rested her head against the cold window, watching familiar buildings blur by, trying not to think about how empty her house would feel when she walked in. She should've been with Drew, with his family in North Carolina, surrounded by laughter and the warmth of family, but the new tour dates had kept her away, pushing her to another isolated Thanksgiving alone.

She forced her eyes shut, letting herself slip back to a Thanksgiving long ago, the memory swimming to the surface uninvited, crisp in its painful detail.

Seventeen-year-old her was on her feet, wiping her hands on a faded dish towel as she stepped back to admire the Thanksgiving spread she'd managed to cobble together in the cramped kitchen. The turkey, golden and crispy, had taken every cent she'd saved for weeks. Her fingers were aching from peeling potatoes, stirring gravy, mashing yams. She'd splurged on everything, even the real-brand Reddi Wip, standing tall and proud next to a homemade pumpkin pie. She'd stacked up mismatched plates on the table, dusted off the old glasses, arranged napkins—everything as perfect as she could make it.

But as the afternoon faded into evening, and she caught sight of her tired face in the mirror, a small doubt tugged at her. She'd wanted this day to feel special, to feel like a real Thanksgiving, like the ones she'd always seen on TV. The kind where families sat around the table together, passing dishes, smiling, laughing.

She looked over the spread, feeling a little prickle of pride. This was for her mommy. Maybe they'd all sit down together for once, maybe even talk about something good.

The door banged open, and her mother, unsteady on her feet, stumbled in, leaning on Michael for support. But they weren't alone. A small crowd of strangers followed them inside, laughter and loud voices breaking the quiet she'd carefully created.

Her heart dropped as she took in the scene. They looked like they'd come straight from some run-down dive, clothes rumpled, cigarette smoke clinging to them, eyes glassy with drink.

One of the men staggered into the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and cracked it open, tossing the cap carelessly onto the floor. She glanced at Michael, hoping he'd say something, but he was busy grabbing fistfuls of turkey, tearing the carefully cooked bird apart with his bare hands. He barely noticed her, his eyes half-closed, his mind somewhere far away.

She turned to her mother, her voice catching in her throat. "Mom... I cooked dinner. I thought... maybe we could all sit down together?"

Her mother's gaze flicked over her, barely focused. She waved a hand, brushing her off. "Oh, don't be such a buzzkill. We're just having a little fun." She turned back to her friends, laughing at some joke she couldn't hear.

Her eyes stung as the small crowd descended on the table, ripping apart everything she'd worked for all day. Strangers grabbed plates, turkey legs, spilling gravy and yams onto the floor. One of them even sprayed the Reddi Wip directly into his mouth, tossing the can onto the floor when he was done. The beer cans piled up around the table, littering the floors she'd scrubbed clean.

She clenched her fists, her body rigid, her whole world crumbling around her. She didn't even recognize her mother in that moment, surrounded by her entourage, laughing with that hollow sound that always hurt her more than any slap ever could.

As she stood there, watching her beautiful, hard-won dinner turn to ruin, something in her broke. She realized with a terrible clarity that this was her life, and that it would always be like this if she didn't leave. Her mother wouldn't change. Michael wouldn't stop. There would never be a Thanksgiving filled with laughter, or family, or warmth—not here. Not in this house.