dysplaced
Jade Morgan didn't really look sick.
That's probably why nobody seemed to notice.
But if you looked close enough, past the stacked silver rings on her long tattooed fingers, you would see a tremble. And if you looked past the scattered earrings or tongue piercing, you'd see a sort of stiffness. A tight, overwhelming exhaustion that I'm not sure most people survive long enough to recognise.
The first time I properly met Jade, she was hiding. Deep in the hallways of school, a bathroom half hidden by a broken vending machine. Third stall.
I hadn't meant to catch her in the act, but the soft hiccuping was hard to ignore.
When she came out and saw me, legs dangling off the counter, she didn't scream. She didn't even seem to particularly mind. She paused for one moment, face blank and then pulled up her sleeves and began washing her hands like it was just another Tuesday.
Because it was. For her.
She had dried her hands and glanced at me, her eyes catching the sunlight in a way that made her pupils glow green.
"You tell anyone I was crying, I'll tell them you relapsed."
I didn't know if it was the blatant way she worked me out so quickly or the way she was looking at me like a wounded animal trying to convince me she still had teeth.
But I think I started falling in love with her right then and there.
#9 in Rue [May 2026]
#51 in drugs [May 2026]