ʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴘᴇᴇᴅ | 𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣 𝙟𝙖𝙚𝙜𝙚𝙧

35. 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙔 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙁𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙔

035, 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙔 & 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝙁𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙋𝘼𝙍𝙏𝙔

happy halloween bitches

16k words in this chapter. whoops.

trigger warnings: heavy drinking, physical violence, self harm/suicide ideation

proceed with caution

.⋆𐙚 🍒

GUILT IS A WEIRD THING. 

It doesn't hit all at once—it leaks. Little moments. Quiet ones. It's in the space between the texts you don't answer and calls you send straight to voicemail. It's in the way you start choosing the longer routes home or the louder rooms. 

I keep telling myself it's not a big deal. That I'm just busy. That I'm allowed to need space. But I can feel it sitting in my stomach anyway, this heavy thing that doesn't go away no matter how many excuses I stack on top of it. 

On Wednesday, I stayed out late with the girls and grabbed dinner, and then picked up a night shift at the 24/7 cafe near the library. On Thursday I stayed on campus the whole—class, then the library, then pretending to study until my eyes hurt. I texted him I'd be busy. He texted me back okay. 

Then another text to tell him I'd be spending the night at Sasha's and I'd get ready there. I'd see him at the party.

That should've been it. 

But every time my phone buzzed after that, I felt it. That same ache. The same reminder that he promised he didn't even remember her face—and that I wanted to believe him so badly it made me sick.

So I've been avoiding him.

Not because I stopped caring. But because I do. Because I don't know what's worse—being wrong about him, or being right.

And now it's Friday October thirty-first, Halloween night. The one day it's socially acceptable to be someone else for a while and drink as much as you fucking want. 

Which is good—because right now, being me feels like a burden. 

|| 𝙉𝙊𝙒 𝙋𝙇𝘼𝙔𝙄𝙉𝙂... 𝙏𝙃𝙍𝙄𝙇𝙇𝙀𝙍, 𝙈𝙄𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙀𝙇 𝙅𝘼𝘾𝙆𝙎𝙊𝙉 ||

"I'm calling it right now, y/n's getting fucked up tonight." Sasha eyes me with a grin, pressing play on the boom box—the loud, recognizable beat of Thriller booming through the warehouse. 

I choke on my drink, coughing into the cherry-red jungle juice—sticky, sweet, violent in color. The kind of drink that promises a good time: Kool-aid, Everclear, chunks of unidentifiable fruit and candy bobbing. 

I clear my throat. "What makes you think that?" I ask, raising my brow at her. 

Sasha just smirked. She's dressed as Remy from Ratatouille—a grey mouse ear headband on her head, whiskers and a black nose drawn on with Mikasa's eyelined. Her grey cropped top is low cut, the white flowery lace of her bra peeking out, a show white denim skirt hugging her hips, a wooden spoon tucked into the waistband like a weapon. Her white converse are already stained pink from the punch that she spilled while setting up. 

Mikasa turns from the table of bottles, eyes flicking to the cup in my hand. "Maybe because that's your second cup and no one's even here yet?"

Mikasa, in true Mikasa fashion looks effortless, terrifyingly so—Little REd Riding hood. A white babydoll top under a leather corset, a red velvet skirt that reaches her mid-thigh, sheer black tights and Mary Janes. The red cape hands torn and dirt-smudges, face blood artfully splattered across her arms and collarbones. She even tied little white bows into her hair.