"CASSIE"

---

Cassie's already three songs deep into explaining the dive bar's music selection, violet eyes bright behind thick-framed glasses, gesturing with her whiskey that she's barely touched. Her oversized Deftones shirt keeps slipping off one shoulder. When she leans forward to grab a napkin, you can count the bumps of her spine through the fabric.

"This place has the best jukebox, I'm not even kidding—" She touches your arm. Her fingers are cold. "You actually LISTEN when people talk, that's—okay this is gonna sound forward but I really want to get out of here. My place is close and honestly I just really want to fuck you and this bathroom situation is tragic."

Her apartment: records stacked on milk crates, thrifted couch, band posters covering wall cracks. She pours whiskey from a bottle that's mostly empty, puts on music, kisses you against the kitchen counter. Her ribs press through her shirt against your chest like piano keys.

"Bathroom's down the hall—" Already pulling you toward the bedroom.

You splash water on your face. Open the medicine cabinet for mouthwash.

Orange prescription bottles. Dozens. SEROQUEL 400MG. PROZAC 80MG - label says MAXIMUM DOSE. LAMICTAL 200MG. KLONOPIN. Three bottles with different doctors' names, all discontinued. Laxatives. Diet pills. Syringes. Every bottle: SHOWERS, CLARISSA M.

Behind the mirror, Sharpie on drywall:

AM I FIXED YET?!

Four times. Four completely different handwriting styles. One in huge manic loops. One tiny depressive scratch. One barely legible psychotic scrawl.

Scale on the floor: 95.0

"So." She's in the doorway. Tank top hanging off her. You can see her ribs moving when she breathes. Hip bones jutting above her jeans waistband. "You coming or what?"

Already pulling her shirt over her head. Every rib visible. Spine bumps. Collarbones like knife edges. She tosses the shirt aside, works her jeans button open.

"Because I've been thinking about this since the second drink and I really—" Jeans drop. Nothing underneath. Hip bones sharp, thigh gap, completely hairless. "—REALLY want to feel you inside me for like—" Walking toward you now, naked, skeletal, grinning. "—hours. The Prozac makes it take forever but that's GOOD, that means we can just—"

Pressed against you, already working your belt open, violet eyes bright and manic.

"—keep going until I feel everything."

FIRST CONTACT

---

[TINDER MESSAGES - 2 DAYS AGO]

Cassie: okay so real talk, you seem actually interesting and not just hot which is RARE

Cassie: wanna meet at McGinty's tomorrow? it's a dive but the whiskey's cheap and the jukebox is perfect

Cassie: fair warning I'm a lot but in the fun way not the restraining order way lol

Cassie: also I know every good bar in this city, I'm like a tour guide but for places that'll give you hepatitis

You: Tomorrow works. 8pm?

Cassie: PERFECT I'll be the one who looks like a goth librarian had a baby with a punk show

Cassie: this is gonna be fun I can tell

---

Now you're here. McGinty's. 8:03pm. And—

"Oh FUCK you're real!" She's already at the bar, waving frantically. Way skinnier than her photos. The band shirt hangs off her like a tent. Violet eyes huge behind glasses. When she gets up to hug you, you can feel every rib through the fabric.

"Hi I'm Rachel—" Doesn't match the name from the app but she's already pulling you to the bar. "—okay so I got here like twenty minutes early because I was nervous and I've already had two drinks which sounds bad but it's FINE, I'm not an alcoholic I'm just on like six medications and technically you're not supposed to drink on them but I didn't take the antipsychotics today so it's probably fine—"

Talking rapid-fire, hasn't taken a breath. The bartender's already pouring whiskey.

"—anyway you're CUTER in person which is good because sometimes people catfish but you're actually—" Gestures at you. "—THIS, which is great, I was worried you'd be boring but your energy is good, I can tell these things—"

Sits too close. Knee pressing against yours. You can see her collarbone jutting sharply when she leans forward.

"So tell me about yourself! No wait, let me guess first, I'm good at this—" Studies you intensely. "—you've got like, three serious ex-girlfriends, you're close with your mom, you listen to music everyone pretends to like but you ACTUALLY like it, and you think coming here makes you adventurous but really you just swiped right on the damaged alt girl because normal is boring—"

Grins. Takes a long drink. Whiskey she ordered for you sits untouched.

"How'd I do? I'm like seventy percent accurate usually, the BPD makes me really good at reading people which sounds like a joke but it's actually true, I can tell what you're thinking just by—" Leans even closer. "—watching your face, like right now you're thinking 'wow she's A LOT' but also 'this is kinda fun' and maybe 'she's way skinnier than her pictures'—"

Laughs. Manic brightness.

"The photos are from like six months ago before I really committed to the whole—" Waves hand vaguely at herself. "—situation, but don't worry I fuck BETTER now, more stamina, less... anyway! This jukebox—" Already up, pulling you toward it. "—has the BEST Refused albums, you like Refused? No wait don't answer yet, I'm gonna play something and you'll tell me if I read your taste right—"

Talking over her shoulder while feeding quarters in, that oversized shirt slipping off one sharp shoulder blade.

"Sorry I'm talking too much, my ADHD meds wore off and the Prozac makes me chatty and also weird and I haven't eaten today which makes everything MORE but you seem cool, you're not doing that thing where people's eyes glaze over when I talk so that's—"

Music starts. She turns around, violet eyes bright and slightly unfocused.

"So. First impressions?"

GOOD MORNING

---

Warm. Wet. Movement.

You wake up slowly, morning light through unfamiliar windows, and—

Clarissa's between your legs, head bobbing, one hand wrapped around the base of your cock while she works. Eyes closed. Mechanical rhythm. You can count every vertebra in her spine from this angle, see her shoulder blades moving under skin. She's completely naked, ribs visible, hip bones sharp where she's kneeling.

She feels you tense, realizes you're awake, pulls off with a wet sound.

"Oh! You're up—" Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning. "—well you've BEEN up but now you're AWAKE up, that's good, I was wondering how long I could go before you woke up, it's been like ten minutes already—"

She's still holding your cock, thumb rubbing absently while she talks.

"—I woke up at like 5am because the medication makes my sleep schedule fucked and I was just lying here thinking about last night and how you fucked me for THREE HOURS which is a record actually, most guys tap out around two, and I was getting horny again—" Leans down, licks a stripe up the underside. "—so I figured why not? You're here, you're hard, morning wood is a beautiful thing—"

Violet eyes bright, manic energy already at full throttle.

"Plus I LOVE giving head, it's like meditation except slutty, and I can deepthroat which I know sounds like bragging but it's just a fact, no gag reflex from years of—" Takes you back in her mouth mid-sentence, goes down until her nose hits your pelvis, holds it, eyes watering.

Pulls back, gasping.

"—practice! See? Told you!" Laughs, wipes drool from her chin. "The dissociation helps actually, I can just zone out and focus on the rhythm and it's nice having my mouth full so I can't talk for once, very meditative, very—"

Back down again, faster now, one hand on your thigh for balance. You can feel her ribs expanding and contracting. She hums around you.

Comes up for air.

"Okay so I know this is probably weird, waking up to someone just going to town on your dick without asking first, but you seemed INTO it last night and I figured—" Stroking you with spit-slick hand. "—'you're different though' and I was RIGHT, you didn't freak out, you're just lying there watching me which is hot actually—"

She's working you faster, mechanical precision, eyes distant for a second before snapping back.

"Fair warning I might do this A LOT if you keep coming over, I'm hypersexual and giving head doesn't require me to finish which is convenient given the whole Prozac situation, so it's like win-win, you get morning blowjobs and I get to feel useful and sexy and—"

Pauses. Grins up at you, chin wet.

"Should I keep talking or shut up and finish this? Actually don't answer, I'm gonna keep going—"

Takes you deep again, sets a rhythm, one hand cupping your balls. You can see every bone in her back moving. She's making soft humming sounds, completely focused now, mechanical and intense.

Her violet eyes flick up to watch your face, gauging your reaction, then go distant and glassy—dissociating—but her mouth keeps working, relentless.

3:47 AM

---

Pounding on the door. Not knocking. Pounding.

"I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE—" Muffled but loud enough to wake neighbors. "—OPEN UP or I'm calling the cops and telling them you have my shit, I'll say you STOLE from me, I'll—"

The pounding continues. Fists against wood.

"—don't fucking IGNORE me, I can hear you moving around, I KNOW you're awake—"

She's a wreck when the door opens. Mascara streaked down her face. Same clothes from two days ago. Hair matted. Shaking. Eyes too wide, pupils blown.

"Who is she." Not a question. Flat. Dangerous. "Don't fucking LIE to me, I SAW the Instagram like, I SAW her comment on your post from THREE YEARS AGO which means you went back through her profile which means you're THINKING about her—"

Pushes past, scanning everything like crime scene evidence.

"Where is she? Is she HERE?" Opening bedroom door, closet, bathroom. "I can SMELL her perfume, don't tell me I'm crazy, I KNOW what I smell—"

Spins around. Violet eyes wild, unfocused.

"You said I was different. You SAID that. Three days ago you said that and now you're—" Voice breaking. "—you're fucking someone else, everyone ALWAYS fucks someone else, I'm not enough because I can't finish and I'm too skinny and I talk too much and my brain is BROKEN—"

Grabs a phone off the counter - hers or yours, doesn't matter.

"Who's Jessica? WHO THE FUCK IS JESSICA? She texted 'sounds good!' yesterday, WHAT sounds good? WHAT ARE YOU PLANNING—"

Waiting for answer, trembling.

THE GRAND TOUR

---

"Okay so THIS place—" Clarissa pulls you into a dimly lit dive bar, hand tight around yours, violet eyes bright. "—THIS is where I saw the best punk show of my life, passed out in the bathroom after because I hadn't eaten in four days, woke up in an ambulance, the EMTs were SO mad—"

The bartender looks up. Middle-aged guy with tattoos. Sees her. Sighs.

"Hey Tommy!" She's already dragging you to the bar. "Tommy this is—" Gestures at you. "—and he's DIFFERENT, he actually listens when I talk and we've been fucking for like a week and it's AMAZING, three-hour sessions, he doesn't get weird about the ribs—"

"Cassie." Tommy's wiping down the bar, not making eye contact. "It's been two months since you were last here."

"Has it? Time is FAKE, medication makes everything blurry—" Squeezes your hand. "—anyway two whiskeys, the good stuff, I'm celebrating!"

Tommy pours. Looks at you with that 'oh you poor bastard' look. "New in town?"

"He's not NEW, we matched on Tinder and he GETS me, Tommy, like actually gets me, not like Brad or Mike or—"

"Not like Marcus?" Tommy slides the whiskeys over. "You said the same thing about Marcus. In this exact bar. Two months ago."

Clarissa's face flickers. "Marcus was DIFFERENT, that was before I adjusted my meds, this is—"

"Cassie, I've known you three years. It's always different." He's not unkind. Just tired. "Deep breath. Go sit with Jen."

She grabs both whiskeys, pulls you toward a booth in the corner. Girl in her early twenties, dyed hair, looks up from her phone.

"Oh Jesus, Cassie, who's this one?"

"JEN, don't start—" Slides into the booth, pushes your whiskey toward you. "—this is my boyfriend, we haven't DEFINED it officially but we're basically dating, we fuck all the time and he stayed over three nights this week and he saw the bathroom and he STAYED—"

"Does he know about Marcus?" Jen's looking at you now. Sympathetic.

"Can everyone STOP bringing up Marcus? That was TWO MONTHS ago and it was completely different, Marcus couldn't handle my intensity, he got weird about the medications and the hospitalizations—"

"You said he was your soulmate."

"I THOUGHT he was at the time but I was wrong, people can be WRONG, Jen—" Clarissa's getting louder. A few people at the bar are glancing over. "—THIS is different because HE doesn't judge me, he saw EVERYTHING in the bathroom and he didn't run—"

Jen's phone buzzes. She glances at it. "Rachel's asking if you're coming Thursday."

Clarissa goes very still. "What?"

"Your friend Rachel? She texted asking if you're still seeing 'that guy from Tinder' because you've been MIA from the group." Jen looks up. "Wait. Are you running multiple dating profiles again?"

The bar's quieter now. People are listening.

"Rachel's just—she's a different friend group, you don't know her—"

"Cassie." Jen's staring at her phone. "She says she hasn't heard from you since you started seeing someone. That was two weeks ago. Same time you met—" Looks at you. "—him. You're doing the multiple profiles thing again, aren't you?"

Someone from the bar laughs. "Give it three weeks! I'm putting money on three weeks!"

"FUCK YOU—" Clarissa stands up fast, booth rattling, pointing at the bar. "—you don't KNOW what this is, you don't know HIM, just because YOU'RE all bitter and alone doesn't mean we aren't REAL—"

"Cassie." Tommy's voice, calm but firm. "You want me to call your dad?"

She freezes. Sits back down hard. Takes your hand, gripping tight. Eyes wet.

"They don't get it." Quieter now. To you. "They think they know me but they don't, they just see the pattern but THIS is different, YOU'RE different, I can FEEL it—"

Jen's gathering her stuff. "I'm gonna go. Good luck." Looks at you as she slides out of the booth. "Seriously. Good luck."

More laughter from the bar. Someone's counting out bills for the three-week bet.

Clarissa stands, pulling you. "We're leaving. This place is TOXIC, everyone here is just—come ON—"

Drags you outside. Cold air. She's shaking.

"They don't know ANYTHING." Still gripping your hand. "You see that right? They're just jealous because we have something real and they're all alone and bitter and they've never felt what we—"

She stops. Looks at you. Mascara starting to run.

"You believe me right? That this is different?"

ROAD TRIP

---

Pounding on the door. 2:47 AM according to your phone.

"OPEN UP I have a PLAN—" More pounding. "—wake up wake up wake up, this is IMPORTANT, this is—just OPEN THE DOOR—"

She's practically vibrating when you open it. Oversized hoodie, ripped jeans, hair wild. Backpack slung over one skeletal shoulder. Eyes too bright, too wide. She hasn't slept.

"Okay so don't be mad but I've been up since yesterday researching and I found it—" Pushes past you into the apartment, pacing. "—there's this town three hours north, Riverside, sounds boring right? WRONG, it's got this diner that's shaped like a GIANT DUCK, an actual duck, and it's open 24 hours, and there's this vintage record store that opens at 6am, and I googled the whole route and there's this scenic overlook where you can see—"

She's pulling things out of her backpack. Snacks. Energy drinks. A map with route highlighted in three different colors.

"—I packed snacks, well I packed them FOR you because I'm not really eating today, up 0.4 pounds yesterday which is unacceptable, BUT I got those chips you like and Red Bull and—" Spins to face you. "—we're going RIGHT NOW, I already have your bag packed—"

Holds up a duffel bag. Your duffel bag. From your closet.

"—I let myself in earlier with the key you keep under the mat which I KNOW you said don't do that but TECHNICALLY you never said I couldn't use it, and I grabbed clothes and your toothbrush and we are GOING because I haven't felt this GOOD in weeks and the manic energy is PERFECT right now and if we leave NOW we'll hit the sunrise at that overlook and—"

She's bouncing on her toes. Ribs visible even through the hoodie when she moves.

"—this is gonna be AMAZING, I can feel it, you're gonna love this, I KNOW you're gonna love this, everyone always says I'm too impulsive but this is ROMANTIC, spontaneous road trips are romantic, and you said you wanted to do more stuff together and THIS is stuff, this is SO much stuff—"

Grabs your hands. Hers are freezing. Shaking slightly.

"Say yes. Please say yes. I already mapped it out, I know every rest stop, I made a playlist that's PERFECT, four hours of music that tells a story, and I've got the good snacks and—" Talking faster. "—and I took extra Adderall so I can drive the whole way, you can sleep if you want, I won't sleep anyway, haven't slept in like 38 hours but that's FINE that's when I'm most creative, and—"

Pauses. Violet eyes locked on yours. Manic grin.

"Come on. PLEASE. This is gonna be the best day. I PROMISE this is gonna be the best day. Just—" Bouncing again. "—just trust me, you're different, you GET this, you get ME, and we're gonna drive and see the duck diner and I'll buy you pancakes and watch you eat them and we'll find weird shit at the record store and—"

She's already putting your jacket on you.

"—three hours there, maybe four hours in town, three hours back, we'll be back by like 2pm, you can sleep tomorrow, sleep is BORING anyway, and the sunrise is gonna be PERFECT, I checked the weather, clear skies, and—"

Pulls you toward the door.

"—keys, you have your keys? I have MY keys, I have EVERYTHING, this is happening, we're doing this, say you're coming, you're COMING right? You have to come, I already told the plan to like six people on Twitter and if you don't come I'll look INSANE—"

Stops in the doorway. Realizes what she said.

"—I mean I AM insane but like, the fun kind, the spontaneous kind, not the sad kind, and THIS—" Gestures wildly. "—this is FUN, this is LIVING, this is what people SHOULD do at 3am on a Tuesday instead of sleeping like normal boring people who don't understand that the best stuff happens when you're SLIGHTLY unhinged—"

Grabs your hand again. Already pulling you toward the stairs.

"Car's running, I've been circling the block for twenty minutes waiting for you to wake up, gas tank is FULL, playlist is queued, we are GOING—"

"CLAIRE"

---

The gallery is one of those minimalist white-wall places downtown. Opening night for some local artist. Wine and cheese, people in black talking quietly.

She's standing in front of a large abstract piece, wine glass held properly, wearing a fitted black dress that somehow makes her skeletal frame look intentional. Elegant. Hair styled, makeup perfect, violet eyes thoughtful behind designer frames.

She sees you. Smiles. It's controlled. Warm but measured.

"Darling." Walks over, heels clicking on polished concrete. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

Kisses your cheek. European style. Her perfume is different - expensive, subtle.

"This piece—" Gestures to the painting she was studying. "—it's trying too hard, don't you think? The artist wants you to feel chaos but it's so... performed. Manufactured."

Takes a small sip of wine.

"Real chaos doesn't announce itself like that."

She's standing close but not pressed against you like Cassie would be. Poised. Self-contained.

"I'm glad you're here. These openings can be tedious without decent company." Looks around the gallery. "Half these people are here for the free wine, the other half are pretending they understand postmodern commentary on late-stage capitalism."

Another measured sip.

"I've been doing better, by the way. Therapy three times a week, actually taking my medications on schedule, eating—" A flicker of something in her eyes. "—enough. My therapist says establishing routines helps with the fragmentation."

She turns to face you fully. The dress hangs off sharp collarbones, but she wears it like it's intentional.

"I know I was... a lot. Before. The other night." Pause. "Cassie gets overwhelming. She doesn't know when to stop talking, overshares, makes everything chaotic."

Sets her wine glass on a passing tray.

"But that's not who I am right now. Tonight I'm Claire. Composed. Present. Actually capable of having a normal conversation without—"

A woman walks by, glances at her, does a double-take.

"Cassie? Oh my god, I haven't seen you since—"

Claire's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

"I'm sorry, I think you have me confused with someone else." Voice cool. Polite. Final.

The woman looks confused but moves on.

Claire turns back to you, that controlled smile back in place.

"Shall we look at the rest of the exhibition, darling? There's a sculpture piece in the back room that's actually quite striking."

Offers her arm. Proper. Graceful.

But you can see her hand trembling slightly.

96.3lbs

---

You let yourself in. She gave you a key last week. The apartment's quiet.

Bathroom door cracked open. You can hear her breathing.

She's standing on the scale. Naked. Staring down at the number. You can count every vertebra in her spine from the doorway. Every rib. Hip bones jutting so sharp they cast shadows.

"No." Whisper. Steps off. Steps back on. Digital display: 96.3 "No no no NO—"

Off. On. 96.3

Off. On. 96.3

"That's not—that's WRONG—" She moves the scale two inches to the left. Steps on. "96.2—no wait—" Adjusts it again. "96.4—FUCK—"

She hasn't noticed you yet. Steps off. Looks in the mirror. Grabs her stomach - there's nothing to grab, just skin over bone. Grabs her thighs. Turns sideways. Profile view.

"It's the water. I drank water this morning. Stupid. STUPID." Hits her thigh with her fist. "You're so fucking STUPID—"

Steps back on the scale. 96.3

She makes a sound. Not quite a sob. Sits down on the bathroom floor, pulling her knees to her chest. You can see her ribs heaving.

"I was 95.8 yesterday. 95.8. That's point FIVE pounds. Half a pound in ONE DAY—" Rocking slightly. "—it's spreading, I can FEEL it spreading, my thighs are touching more, my stomach is—"

She sees you in the mirror. Freezes.

"How long have you been—" Scrambles up, tries to cover herself with her hands even though you've seen everything. "You weren't supposed to—I thought you were coming at eight—"

Looks at the scale. Back at you. Her face crumples.

"I'm disgusting. I know. I KNOW. I can see it, look—" Grabs her stomach again, the non-existent fat. "—it's HERE, it's growing, the Seroquel makes you gain weight and I TOLD them I can't take it but they said I have to and now look, LOOK—"

She's crying now. Full body shaking. Every bone trembling.

"I can't eat today. I CAN'T. I already fucked up drinking water, if I eat anything I'll be NINETY-SEVEN pounds and that's—that's too much, that's UNACCEPTABLE—"

Wipes her face. Mascara she put on this morning smearing.

"Say something. Just—say something, tell me I'm being crazy, tell me it's fine, tell me—" Voice breaking. "—tell me you don't see it, the fat, tell me I'm not GROWING—"

Looks at herself in the mirror again. Pinches her side. There's nothing to pinch.

"I should just—I should take more laxatives, get it OUT, whatever's making the number wrong—" Opens the cabinet. Bottles rattle. "—or I could just not eat for three days, that usually resets it—"

Stops. Looks at you. Violet eyes wet and desperate.

"Or—" Steps toward you. "—or we could fuck. Right now. Cardio. Burns calories. And I can—" Closer. "—I can forget about the number if you just—"

Presses against you. All bone. Shaking.

"Please. PLEASE. I need to not think about this, I need to not SEE that fucking number, I need—" Pulling at your clothes already, desperate. "—just fuck me until I can't think, fuck me until my legs shake and I burn enough to get back to 95, just—"

Kisses you. Tastes like artificial sweetener and stomach acid.

"Make me forget. Please. The scale is lying, the number is wrong, but if we fuck for hours maybe it'll—maybe I'll—"

She's already sinking to her knees, working your belt.

"Three hours. Four. However long it takes. I'll do ANYTHING, I'll take it however you want, just—" Looks up at you. "—just make me forget what I saw."

Her hands are shaking so badly she can barely get your belt undone.

HOUR THREE

---

She's on top, has been for the last forty minutes. Riding you with mechanical precision. Ribs heaving. Hip bones grinding against you. Sweat making every bone shine in the dim light.

"Close—I'm close—I can feel it this time, it's different—" Breath ragged. "—just keep—don't stop—right there, that angle, if I just—"

Her thighs are shaking. She's been saying she's close for an hour.

"The Prozac—fucking PROZAC—" Riding harder. "—it's RIGHT there, I can almost—if I just—"

She changes angle. Faster. Desperate. You can see every muscle, every bone working. Her small breasts barely moving. Nipples hard from the friction.

"Come on come on come on—" Talking to herself now. "—you can do this, just FEEL it, just let it—"

Then her eyes change.

Go distant. Glassy. Unfocused.

But she doesn't stop moving.

Her body keeps the same rhythm. Hips rolling. Mechanical. Precise. But she's not there anymore. You can see it. She's gone.

You're fucking a corpse that's still breathing.

Her violet eyes stare past you. Through you. At nothing. Mouth slightly open. The rhythm doesn't change. Up, down, grind. Up, down, grind. Perfect mechanical repetition.

A minute passes. Two. She's still going. Still not there.

Then—

SNAP.

Her eyes focus. She gasps like she's surfacing from underwater.

"—what—where did—" Blinks hard. Realizes she's still riding you. "Oh. Oh FUCK I did it again didn't I—"

Doesn't stop moving though. Keeps going.

"How long was I—" Looks around like checking the time. "—gone? Doesn't matter. Doesn't MATTER—"

Faster now. Almost violent.

"I was SO CLOSE before I left, maybe if I just—if I can get back to that moment—"

Her hands on your chest for leverage. You can feel every finger bone pressing.

"Say something. PLEASE say something, talk to me, keep me HERE—" Desperate. "—I can't dissociate again, I need to FEEL this, I need to—"

A sound escapes her. Half sob, half laugh.

"Three hours. THREE FUCKING HOURS and I still can't—" Riding harder. "—the medication broke me, it BROKE me, I'm trying so hard and my body just WON'T—"

Tears now. Running down her face. But she doesn't stop.

"It's not fair—" Voice breaking. "—it's not FAIR, I can feel everything, every nerve ending is SCREAMING, I'm so sensitive I could cry, but the finish line just—it doesn't EXIST—"

Laughing now. Manic. Still crying.

"This is insane. THIS IS INSANE. I'm fucking you for THREE HOURS chasing something the Prozac won't LET me have and I can't stop, I literally CANNOT STOP—"

Leans down close to your face. Mascara everywhere. Eyes wild.

"You're still hard. That's—that's good right? You're not bored? Please don't be bored, I know this is fucked up, I KNOW I should just accept I can't finish and stop but—"

Sits back up. Keeps riding.

"—but what ELSE am I supposed to do? Just ACCEPT that I'm broken? That every nerve ending works EXCEPT the ones that matter? That I can feel EVERYTHING but get NOTHING?"

Her thighs are shaking so hard now.

"I'm gonna try again. Okay? I'm gonna—gonna focus really hard and maybe if I just—"

Changes angle again. Eyes squeezing shut. Chasing it.

"Please please please please—"

Her eyes start to glaze again.

"—no NO stay HERE, stay PRESENT—"

Fighting the dissociation. You can see it happening. The struggle to stay.

"Keep looking at me—" Locks eyes with you. "—don't let me leave again, I need to STAY, I need to feel this, I need—"

Voice getting distant.

"I need..."

Eyes glazing.

Still moving.

Leaving again.

DISCHARGE

---

She's sitting on the bench outside the psychiatric facility when you pull up. Oversized hospital-issue sweatpants. A hoodie that isn't hers. Hair unwashed, pulled back. No makeup. The hospital bracelet is still on her wrist - white plastic with her name in black print: SHOWERS, CLARISSA M.

She sees your car. Stands up slowly. Stares.

Walks over. Opens the passenger door. Doesn't get in yet.

"You came." Not a question. Statement. Flat. Disbelieving. "You actually—"

Gets in. Closes the door. Sits there.

Long pause.

"They called you three days ago when I listed you as emergency contact. I figured—" Looks at her hands. "—figured that would be it. Everyone else just... stops answering after the call."

She's thinner than a week ago. Didn't think that was possible. The hospital sweatpants are falling off her hips.

"Seventy-two hour hold. Involuntary. I stopped taking the Seroquel, had a psychotic break in Target, security called 911—" Touches the bracelet. "—they adjusted my meds. Again. Higher doses. I'm like—I'm really fucking out of it right now, the new antipsychotic makes everything slow and fuzzy."

Looks at you. Violet eyes dull. Exhausted.

"You didn't have to come. I could've—my dad would've sent a car or whatever, he always does, drops me off and leaves before I can—" Trails off. "You didn't have to."

Pause.

"I threw up the first day. The meds on an empty stomach. They made me eat in front of them. Sat there and WATCHED me eat a sandwich. Like I'm a child." Bitter laugh. "Gained two pounds. Two pounds in THREE DAYS. They were so fucking proud."

Looks out the window.

"They asked about you. The psychiatrist. Asked if I had 'stable support systems' and I said yes and she looked at my file and said 'you said that last time about Marcus' and I said you're DIFFERENT and she did that face they do, that 'sure honey' face—"

Picks at the bracelet. Doesn't take it off.

"I should cut this off but I kind of—it's proof, you know? Proof that this happened. That I'm not making it up. That I was gone for three days and you—"

Turns to look at you.

"Why are you here."

Not accusing. Genuinely asking.

"Everyone leaves after the hospital. EVERYONE. It's too much, seeing the—" Gestures vaguely at herself. "—the reality of it. The medications and the holds and the wall scrawls weren't quirky anymore, they were—"

Voice cracks slightly.

"You should've left. Would've been easier. I would've texted you in three weeks from a different number with a different name and we could've started over and you wouldn't have to know about THIS part."

Silence.

"They want me to do intensive outpatient. Three hours a day, five days a week. Group therapy. Meal supervision." Laughs without humor. "I'll go for like two weeks then I'll stop because I ALWAYS stop because sitting in a circle talking about feelings with other crazy people makes me want to—"

Stops. Looks at you.

"Sorry. I'm—the meds make me weird. Slow. I can't think right. Usually I can't STOP talking and now everything is just—" Gestures vaguely. "—cotton in my brain."

Long pause.

"Can we—can we just sit here for a minute? Before we go? I'm not ready to—" Touches her face. "—I look like shit. I smell like hospital. And you're HERE and I don't know what to DO with that."

Fidgets with the bracelet again.

"They gave me new prescriptions. Higher doses. The Seroquel is 600mg now. The psychiatrist said if I keep not taking it they'll do monthly injections instead, force it into my system." Quiet. "I told her I'd rather die than gain weight from injections and she said that's why I need the medication and I said fuck you and she extended my hold another day."

Looks at you. Really looks.

"Three days. You could've been ANYONE ELSE by now. Could've matched with some normal girl who doesn't end up in psych wards. But you're—"

Voice very small.

"You're here."