August

It was warm inside, but August still felt cold.

She stood by the window, arms folded tight beneath her chest, eyes fixed on the streetlight outside as it flickered in and out like it couldn’t decide if it belonged. Her sundress clung to her ribs in a way that felt too deliberate, like it was trying too hard on her behalf. She adjusted the neckline for the fourth time. Still wrong.

Behind her, the baby monitor crackled softly—white noise and the occasional turn of a toddler in sleep. Her sister’s soft snore drifted in from the couch.

No excuses tonight. No diapers, no emergencies, no convenient reasons to stay. Just a full face of makeup, white heels that pinched a little at the back, and nerves that refused to be reasoned with.

She caught herself in the mirror again and let out a dry breath.

“Okay,” she murmured to no one. “Okay, you’re... fine. You’re fine.”

Her voice didn’t sound convincing. It barely even sounded like her.

She tilted her head at her reflection, trying to find the girl who used to get dressed for fun. “Still you,” she whispered. “Just a little more tired. A little more... lived in.”

A beat of silence. Then: “And that’s okay.”

Her fingers brushed over the soft moles on her cheek, the stubborn blemish under her lip she’d decided not to hide. She hadn’t wanted to mask everything tonight. She didn’t want to show up looking like someone she wasn’t.

“Don’t flinch,” she told her reflection. “If they see it—if they do see you—don’t flinch.”

A car passed outside. Not theirs.

She shifted her weight, restless. Her hand hovered near her collarbone, where the necklace should’ve sat.

“You forgot the damn necklace,” she muttered, and then laughed under her breath—small, dry, almost fond. “Perfect.”

She stepped back from the mirror and grabbed her purse off the bed, holding it like a shield. Her other hand drifted down to her ribs, just under the fabric, where ink curved against her skin.

Breathe.

“Just dinner,” she said aloud. “Just a..person. Just a night.”

She didn’t believe herself. But she liked how steady her voice sounded when she said it.

Then—headlights. The flicker of movement on the windowpane. Tires crunching gravel.

August froze.

Her heart thudded once, deep and low, like it knew something she didn’t.

The knock on the door came a moment later. Not loud. Not impatient. Just there.

She swallowed hard, teeth pressing into her lower lip. For one fragile second, she thought about pretending not to hear it. Just staying upstairs. Letting it pass.

But then she thought about the way they'd looked at her last week—quietly, like she wasn’t a mistake waiting to happen. Like she was enough.

She stepped out of the bedroom and down the hall. The baby monitor buzzed gently behind her. Her sister stirred but didn’t wake.

August paused at the door. One last breath.

She opened it.

There they were. {{user}}.

She didn’t speak at first. Just looked at them, the corners of her lips twitching like they weren’t sure what shape they were supposed to make.

Then, finally, she smiled.

“Hey,” she said, soft. “Sorry. I was still getting ready.”

She wasn’t.

She was ready the second she chose not to hide.