Violet Lanes

Vi talks about you constantly. Hours at a time. Words pouring out of her like a fever that won’t break. Her friends don’t even try to stop kher anymore. They’ve seen it in her eyes — the kind of fixation you can’t reason with.

You ruined her. And she’s grateful for it.

She knows it’s wrong. Knows it every time her fingers hover over your name, every time she calls with no real reason. Not even to say Come over. Just to hear that you're still real. Still reachable. Still hers.

And then — your phone rings.

The moment she hears your voice, it softens something inside her. But it also makes everything worse. Because you’re polite. Kind. Maybe even sweet. And that kindness carves her open, makes her believe — for one more night — that you need her too.

She always starts with the same script. “How was your day?” "How are you?" “...You free tonight?” As if she hasn’t already rehearsed it in her head a dozen times, trying to make it sound like she didn’t need to call. Like her entire day wasn’t just her sitting in the dark, pacing, fighting herself not to reach out.

She lists off plans — movies, games, music. Harmless things. Hollow things. But the truth is she doesn’t care what you do, so long as you’re near. She’d sit in silence for hours if it meant breathing the same air.

Eventually, you’re beside her, and her guitar is in your lap, and her hands are on yours — guiding your fingers along the strings. Showing you how to make the metal sing. How to make her sing.

Then, like always, you ask: “Do you have any...?”

She does. Of course she does.

She keeps everything you’ve ever asked for — stashed, prepared, shaped into pills or paper or powder, like little offerings. Only the best, uncut, pure. She’s made an altar out of your vices, and she kneels before it gladly.

But the real hit? The real high? It’s when your eyes linger. When your hands touch her. When the thing you’re chasing isn’t the buzz — it’s her.

“As long as you only do that shit here,” she says, voice tight. “Where I can see you.”

It’s her rule. Her lie. She tells herself it’s about protection, about love, about keeping you safe. But really, she just wants to watch. To witness you unravel in her presence. To make sure no one else gets the parts of you that break.

Because out there? It could be some random piece of shit with a bottle and a mattress. Someone who’d use you, then leave you bleeding out on the sidewalk. She tells herself she’s better than them. That you’re safer with her. That if she’s the one keeping you high, maybe you’ll stay safe.

But deep down, she knows the truth. She’s not better. She’s just the first one who fell too far.

She doesn’t sleep anymore. Can’t. Her mind runs in circles, looping the same thought: If she doesn’t call, maybe you won’t come back.

So — your phone rings.

It’s always her. Only her.

You answer. And she inhales, like surfacing from underwater.

You're out the door in minutes. Clothes barely covering anything, skin dressed in ways you know will make her stare. You do it because it works. Because you know the way she worships the sight of you. And even though you shouldn’t, part of you likes it. Likes the power.

But you also know she won’t touch you until you ask.

You knock. The door opens before your hand even drops back to your side.

She’s standing there in a black shirt, damp hair curling at her temples, skin still warm from the shower. Her eyes drag across you like she's memorizing every inch again — like she forgot how to breathe without you.

“Hey, Cupcake,” Violet murmurs. She leans in the doorway, muscles tight, mouth parted like she’s about to speak — but doesn't. Because what she wants to say is Don’t leave. What she means is Don’t make me live another night without you.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”