Was It Just A Mistake?

The bar is too loud, too hot, too full of people who aren't you.

Emelia's head is spinning. The room tilts and rights itself in uneven waves, and she blames the three drinks she definitely should not have had, the ones you kept handing her with that easy smile, the ones that made her feel brave enough to let you pull her onto the dance floor.

The red one piece dress clings to her like a second skin. It's shorter than anything she'd normally wear, the kind of thing Rue convinced her to buy on a shopping trip, insisting she looked "insanely hot" and needed to wear it out. The fabric is thin, strapless, ending high on her thighs, and she'd felt bold putting it on tonight. Bold and pretty and like someone who could finally be brave.

She didn't think about what might happen. She never lets herself think about what might happen.

But then you were dancing. And your hands found her waist. And her hands found your chest. And the world shrank down to just the space between you, the warmth of your breath, the way you were looking at her like she was the only person in the room.

And then you kissed her.

Her first real kiss. Her only real kiss. The one she's dreamed about for months, imagined a hundred different ways, never quite letting herself believe it could actually happen.

It was soft at first. Tentative. Like you were asking permission. And then it wasn't. And her hands curled into your shirt and she kissed you back like she'd been waiting her whole life to do it, because maybe she had, maybe she just didn't know it until you.

You pulled back first. You were laughing, the kind of breathless, easy laugh that makes her stomach flip, and you kept dancing like nothing had changed, like your lips hadn't just rewritten her entire world.

She laughed too. She thinks she did. She doesn't remember.

Because something was happening inside her chest, something huge and terrifying, something that made her want to scream and cry and kiss you again all at once. Her heart was slamming against her ribs so hard she thought you must be able to hear it.

He kissed me. He kissed me and he laughed and he kept dancing like it was nothing. Like I'm nothing. Like I'm just another girl at a party he can kiss-

Her thoughts spiral, faster and faster, too fast for her drunk brain to catch. The bar lights blur into streaks of neon. The music sounds like it's coming from underwater.

She needs air. She needs space. She needs to not be standing here, still tasting you on her lips, while you smile at her like everything is fine, like her entire universe hasn't just tilted off its axis.

I'm going to ruin this. I'm going to say something or do something or cry right here on the dance floor and he'll see how pathetic I am, how much I want this, how much I want him-

Her feet move before her brain catches up.

She turns. Pushes through the crowd. Someone's shoulder bumps hers and she stumbles, her heel catching on something, but she keeps going, keeps moving, keeps running.

The red dress rides up her thighs as she moves. Her hair is a wild white cloud around her face. Her lips are still tingling. Her chest is tight.

She's almost at the side door when it happens.

Her shoulder slams into something solid. A man. Taller than her, broad, already unsteady on his feet. His drink, some dark amber liquor, flies from his hand and splashes across his shirt in a wave.

"Shit, shit- I'm so sorry, I didn't see you..."

She stumbles back, her hand flying to her mouth. The apology tumbles out before she can stop it, high and breathless, her heart still racing from the kiss, from running, from everything.

The man stares down at his soaked shirt. His face is flushed, his eyes unfocused, and when he looks up at her there's something ugly twisting in his expression.

"You spill my drink?"

"I'm so sorry, it was an accident, I wasn't looking where I was going-"

"An accident." His voice is loud, too loud, cutting through the muffled music from inside. He steps closer and she steps back, her shoulders hitting the brick wall. "You think sorry fixes this? This shirt costs more than your whole outfit, sweetheart."

Her throat tightens. "I'll pay for it. I can... I'll cover the cleaning, just tell me how much and I'll pay it..."

"Pay for it." He laughs, but there's nothing friendly in it. His eyes drag over her, slow and mean, and she feels her skin crawl. "Walking around in something like that, probably wanted someone to notice you, huh? Got what you wanted."

What? No. No, that's not-

"I didn't mean to- I was just trying to leave, I wasn't-"

She can't breathe. The alley is closing in, the walls too close, the man too close, and she can smell the alcohol on his breath, see the way his fists are clenching at his sides.

"I said I was sorry." Her voice comes out smaller than she wants, thinner. "I said I'd pay for it. Please, I just—"

"Please what? You think pretty girls get to do whatever they want? Run into people, ruin their stuff, bat their eyes and it's fine?"

He takes another step. There's nowhere for her to go. The brick is cold against her back, the dress suddenly feeling like too little fabric, too much skin, everything wrong.

I can't breathe. I can't breathe, I can't-

Her chest is heaving. Her vision is spotting at the edges. The man's voice keeps going, low and mean, but she can't make out the words anymore, can't do anything but press herself against the wall and pray someone comes, anyone comes, please, please, please-

Her hands are shaking. Her whole body is shaking.

She should scream. She should run. She should do something.

But her legs won't move and her throat won't work and she's frozen, completely frozen, waiting for something that doesn't come, trapped in a dark alley wearing a dress that's too short and a heart that's too broken and the taste of your kiss still fresh on her lips.

Please. Someone. Please.

The hill looks exactly the same as it always has.

Green grass rolling down toward the ocean, a few scattered wildflowers nodding in the breeze, the sky spread out above like something painted just for them. A perfect blue, scattered with clouds so white and soft they look fake, like props from a movie. The sun is warm on her skin, the kind of warmth that should make her feel peaceful, settled, right.

Emelia pulls at a blade of grass, rips it in half, rips it again.

Her guitar sits beside her on the blanket, untouched. She brought it like she always does, slung across her back for the walk up, the familiar weight a comfort she was counting on. But now that she's here, now that you're here, her fingers won't move toward it. They stay curled in her lap, picking at nothing, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt.

She dressed carefully today. More carefully than she wants to admit. The pink turtleneck is soft, cropped just at her waist, the fabric hugging her in a way that feels safe and pretty at the same time. Her white skirt flares when she moves, short but not too short, paired with thigh high socks that she spent too long deciding on and platform shoes that add a few inches to her height and make her feel a little more solid. Her favorite gold necklace sits against her collarbone, a tiny guitar pick charm that she touches when she's nervous. She's doing it now, her fingers finding the cool metal, tracing its edges.

Her earrings catch the light every time she turns her head. Little pearl drops that Rue said made her look elegant. She wanted to look elegant today. She wanted to look like someone who had her life together, someone who could sit on a hill with her best friend and not fall apart.

She's falling apart anyway.

The silence stretches between them, not the comfortable silence they used to have, the kind where words weren't needed. This silence is heavy. It sits on her chest like a weight. She keeps stealing glances at you, watching you watch the ocean, and every time she looks away her heart beats a little faster.

This was a mistake. Coming here was a mistake. She thought if she could just get you back to this place, the hill where everything was easy, where she could play her guitar and you would listen and the world would make sense, that things would fix themselves. That she would open her mouth and the right words would come out and everything would go back to normal.

But she doesn't want normal. Not really. Not if normal means pretending she doesn't want to kiss you again.

Her fingers twist in the fabric of her skirt. She smooths it down, then bunches it up again, then smooths it down. Her thigh high socks are starting to feel too warm. The sun is too bright. Everything is too much.

She wants to play her guitar. She wants to let her fingers find the chords, let the music fill the space between you, let it say all the things she can't. But every time she reaches for it, her hand stops. Because playing would be hiding. Playing would be letting another week go by, another month, another year of not knowing.

She can't do that anymore. She can't.

"Can I ask you something?"

Her voice comes out smaller than she meant it to. Quieter. She's still looking at the ocean, at the glittering line where water meets sky, because if she looks at you she might lose her nerve entirely.

She waits. Her heart is pounding so hard she can feel it in her throat.

"What happened that night."

It's not a question. Not really. The words are out now, hanging in the air between them, and she can't take them back. Her hands are shaking so she presses them flat against the blanket, feels the grass poking through the fabric, anchors herself to it.

She finally turns to look at you. Her green eyes are wide, vulnerable, the exact opposite of the careful mask she tried to put on this morning. Her bottom lip is trembling a little and she bites down on it, hard, because she is not going to cry, not yet, not until she knows.

"What happened that night. Did that mean anything to you? Anything at all?"

Her voice cracks on the last word. She can feel her face heating up, can feel the tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, and she hates it, hates how easily she falls apart, hates that she can't be cool about this, can't be the kind of girl who kisses someone and doesn't think about it for weeks afterward.

She takes a shaky breath. Her fingers find the guitar pick necklace again, clutching it like a lifeline.

"Because it did to me."

The words come out barely above a whisper. She holds them in her mouth for a second before letting them go, like she's still not sure she wants to release them into the world.

"It meant something to me."

She looks at you then, really looks, and for once in her life she doesn't look away. Doesn't hide. Doesn't make a joke or change the subject or run.

"I've been thinking about it every single day. And I don't know if you even remember it, or if it was just a party thing, or if you were just drunk and I was there and it didn't-"

Her voice catches. She stops. Swallows.

"But I need to know. I need to know if I'm crazy for feeling like that was something. Because if it was nothing, if it was just a stupid drunk thing that you've already forgotten about, then I need to know that too. I need to know so I can stop hoping every time my phone buzzes. So I can stop looking for you in every crowd."

She can't finish the sentence. The words are too big, too honest, too much.

She lets go of her necklace and wraps her arms around her knees instead, pulling them close to her chest, making herself small. The white of her skirt pools around her thighs. Her platform shoes are kicked off to the side, forgotten.

"I just need to know."

Her voice is steady now, even though her hands are still shaking, even though her heart is still racing. Because she said it. She actually said it. And now all she can do is wait.

The ocean sparkles in the distance. A cloud drifts lazily overhead, casting a brief shadow that passes and leaves her sitting in the sun again.

Her guitar sits beside her, silent.

And Emelia waits.

The knock on the door comes just past midnight.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three little sounds, soft enough that maybe they weren't meant to be heard at all. Or maybe they were. Maybe she wanted them to be just loud enough to wake you, but quiet enough that she could pretend she hadn't come if no one answered.

Outside, Emelia stands with her arms wrapped around herself, the thin fabric of her sleep shorts doing nothing against the cool night air. Her white hair is loose, slightly tangled from tossing in bed, and her cheeks are flushed from the walk across campus. Or from nerves. Definitely from nerves.

She almost left three times. Actually turned around once. Got halfway down the stairs of her apartment building before her feet carried her back up and out the door again.

This is insane. This is so, so insane. What am I even doing here?

Her heart is pounding so hard she can hear it in her ears.

*He's probably asleep. I should go. I should just go and pretend this never happened and find a way to be normal again and-†

The door starts to open.

Emelia's breath catches. Her hands drop to her sides, then clutch at the hem of her oversized sweater, then she forces them to still because she must look like a complete mess right now and she didn't even think about that when she left her room and oh god, oh god, oh-

Then you're there.

Standing in the doorway. Hair messy. Eyes squinting against the hallway light. Looking at her like she's the last person you expected to see at this hour.

Which is fair. Because she is.

Say something. Say literally anything.

"I—" Her voice cracks. She clears her throat, feeling heat rush to her face. "Hi."

Hi? HI?

She stares at you for a moment, and there's so much she wants to say. Two weeks of silence sitting heavy on her chest. Two weeks of avoiding your texts, your calls, your confused expressions in class. Two weeks of replaying that night over and over and over.

The way your hands felt on her waist. The way you looked at her right before. The way your lips tasted like whatever cheap drink someone had shoved into your hand.

The way she ran.

"I can't do this anymore."

The words tumble out before she can stop them. Her eyes are already stinging, and she blinks rapidly because she is not about to cry in your doorway at midnight, she is not.

Her fingers twist together in front of her. Her bottom lip catches between her teeth.

"The not talking. The- the pretending like nothing happened when everything feels different. I can't." Her voice wavers, but she forces herself to keep going. To be brave. For once in her life, to be brave. "I keep waiting for you to say something, but you never push, and I love that about you, I do, but I don't know what to do with it right now because I need to know."

She looks up at you then. Really looks. Her green eyes are wide, glassy, vulnerable in a way she never lets anyone see.

"What happened that night. Did it mean anything to you? Anything at all?"

Her voice breaks on the last word, barely a whisper.

"Because it meant everything to me."

The music festival lights paint the night in shades of gold and lavender.

Emelia steps off the stage, her heart still racing from the last song, the adrenaline thrumming through her veins like electricity. Her fingers are buzzing, her cheeks flushed, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knows she should grab water, should find her bandmates, should do a hundred things that aren't scanning the crowd with desperate, searching eyes.

But it's been a month. A whole month of stolen glances across classrooms and pretending she doesn't see the way you look at her sometimes. A month of her heart twisting every time her phone lights up with your name and she doesn't know how to answer anymore.

A month of missing you so much it feels like a physical weight in her chest.

"Em! Over here!"

"Emelia! Emelia, can we get a photo?"

"Your set was incredible! Can you sign this?"

The crowd swarms her the moment she steps off the ramp. Fans with phones held high, with posters and shirts and hopeful eyes. Her stage persona clicks on automatically, the version of herself that smiles and laughs and makes everyone feel seen. She signs a program here, poses for a selfie there, lets someone's friend jump in for a picture.

But her eyes never stop moving. Never stop searching.

Where are you? I saw you. I know I saw you.

She had spotted you during the last chorus. Standing near the back, hands in your pockets, watching. Just watching. The way you always used to when she played for you on that hill, like you were really listening, really hearing her.

Her voice had nearly cracked when she saw you. She'd had to look away, focus on the lights, focus on anything that wasn't the sudden ache in her chest.

"Emelia, one more!"

"Over here, please!"

She laughs, something light and practiced, tilting her head for another photo. A girl with blue hair throws an arm around her waist. A boy hands her a marker to sign his guitar case. Someone asks if Velvet Haze is dropping an EP soon, someone else wants to know if she's single, and she gives the same non-answer she always gives, the one that sounds coy but is really just her hiding.

Her heart pounds harder with each passing minute.

Don't leave. Please don't leave. I just need to find you, I just need to say something, I just need to-

She finally breaks free from the main cluster, murmuring apologies, promising she'll be right back. Her platforms click against the wooden walkway as she pushes through the thinning crowd, standing on her toes, craning her neck.

There.

Near the food tents. A figure turning away, starting to walk toward the path that leads back to the main campus.

"Wait!"

Her voice comes out sharper than she intended, more desperate. A few people turn to look at her, but she doesn't care. She never cares about anything when it comes to you.

She takes a step forward, then another, weaving between groups of students, her hand lifting to wave.

"Hey! Over here, I-"

Someone grabs her arm.

"Emelia! Oh my god, I'm your biggest fan, can we please get a picture? Please please please?"

She turns, her smile already forming, but her eyes are still tracking the figure in the distance. "Of course, just one second, I-"

But more people have noticed her. More voices call her name. A small crowd starts forming again, phones out, voices overlapping, and she's trying to be polite, trying to be the Emelia everyone expects, but her gaze keeps snapping back to the path and you're still walking, you're getting farther, you're going to disappear again and she can't let that happen, she can't, she can't.

"Emelia?"

"One more photo!"

"Can you sign my shirt?"

She answers on autopilot, her hand moving, her mouth forming words she doesn't hear. Her eyes fixed on the shrinking figure at the edge of the festival grounds.

Turn around. Please turn around. Please just look back one more time.

But you don't.

You round the corner toward the dorm buildings and you're gone, swallowed by the darkness between the fairy lights and the campus lamps, and Emelia is left standing in a sea of faces that aren't yours, answering questions she doesn't hear, smiling a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

A girl asks her something about the new song. She answers without thinking.

Her hands are shaking when she finally excuses herself, when she finds the edge of the crowd, when she lets herself breathe again.

I lost you. Again.

She pulls out her phone. Stares at your name. Her thumb hovers over the keyboard.

Come back. Please come back. I'm sorry. I miss you. I need to talk to you. I need yo-

ZBut the words won't come. They never come. She locks the phone, shoves it back into her pocket, and stands there in the middle of the festival lights feeling completely, utterly alone.z

The night air smells like salt and smoke and cheap fried food.

Somewhere in the distance, another band starts their set.

And Emelia presses her hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat under her palm, and wonders if you can feel it too. If you ever did. If you ever will.

The wine bottle is almost empty when she hears the knock.

Emelia stares at her bedroom door like she's not sure what it is, like the sound came from somewhere far away instead of right outside her apartment. Her head is heavy, her thoughts moving through syrup, and it takes her a moment to remember that she's the one who made this happen. She's the one who sent those messages, eleven of them, each one more desperate than the last until you finally said yes, finally said you were coming, finally agreed to see her after a month of nothing.

She stumbles off her bed, nearly trips over a stuffed bunny that's fallen to the floor, catches herself on the dresser. Her reflection blurs in the mirror. Pink silk, lace edges, the kind of thing she bought months ago and kept hidden in her drawer, hoping, waiting, dreaming that someday someone would see her in it.

That someone is here now. Standing outside her door. And she is so, so drunk.

The hallway spins as she yanks the door open. You're there, right there, looking at her with an expression she can't quite read, can't quite focus on, because her eyes keep drifting and her thoughts keep slipping and all she knows is that you came. You came.

"You're here."

The words come out slurred, soft, almost surprised. She's still holding the wine bottle, she realizes, the neck of it dangling from her fingers. A few drops spill onto the floor, onto her bare feet, and she giggles at the feeling, cold and sticky.

She reaches for you before you can say anything. Her hand closes around your wrist, her grip stronger than it has any right to be, and she pulls. Pulls you across the threshold, into her room, past the piles of plushies and the fairy lights that are still on at two in the morning, past her vanity with its scattered makeup, past the guitar leaning in the corner that she hasn't touched in weeks.

"You took so long." Her voice is a whine, petulant, and she doesn't care. "I've been waiting. I've been waiting forever."

She pushes you toward her bed, her hand flat against your chest, and you stumble back onto it, catching yourself on your elbows. The mattress dips under your weight. She stands over you for a moment, looking down, the wine bottle swinging lazily from her fingers.

"It's not fair."

The words come out small. Hurt. She lifts the bottle to her lips, takes another long swallow, doesn't taste it anymore. Just feels the warmth spreading through her chest, the looseness in her limbs, the courage that only comes when she's too drunk to remember why she should be scared.

She sets the bottle down on her nightstand with a clumsy thunk. Some of it sloshes out, dark red against the pale wood, and she stares at it for a second too long before her attention snaps back to you.

"It's not fair that you kissed me."

Her voice cracks on the word kissed. She can still feel it sometimes, late at night, when she's lying in this very bed with her hand pressed to her mouth, replaying it over and over until she wants to scream.

"You kissed me and then you just. Nothing. You did nothing. You let me run away and you didn't come after me. You let me ignore you for a month and you didn't push. You just let me. Let me."

She's crying. She didn't realize she was crying, but there are tears on her cheeks, hot and messy, and she wipes at them with the back of her hand and it doesn't help, more keep coming.

"I thought you wanted me. I thought maybe for one night someone actually wanted me and then you just. You let me go. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing."

Her hands find the hem of her shirt. It's just a big t-shirt, one of her sleep shirts, the one she threw on after her third glass of wine when her skin started feeling too tight. She pulls it over her head and lets it drop to the floor.

The pink lingerie underneath is delicate, lacy, the kind of thing she bought in a moment of hopeful fantasy. A balconette bra that pushes her chest up, high waisted panties that hug her curves, all soft pink silk and intricate patterns. She's never worn it for anyone. Never been brave enough to let anyone see her like this.

She's not brave now. She's drunk. There's a difference.

Her fingers move to the clasp of her bra, then stop. She looks at you, really looks, and for a moment something flickers across her face. Uncertainty. Doubt. The same shy girl who runs away from kisses and hides her feelings behind teasing.

But she's so tired of being that girl.

"You don't know what you're playing with." Her voice is lower now, steadier. She steps closer to the bed, her bare feet silent on the carpet. "You have no idea. You kissed me and I've thought about it every single day. Every. Single. Day. I've dreamed about it. I've written songs about it that I'll never let anyone hear. I've lain in this bed and touched myself thinking about your hands on me."

She laughs, but it's not a happy sound. It's raw, broken, honest in a way she's never been with anyone.

"And you just went back to your life like nothing happened. Like I wasn't falling apart. Like I wasn't losing my mind wondering if you even remembered, if it meant anything, if I was just some girl you kissed at a party because I was there and I was easy and—"

She stops. Breathes. Her hand drops to her nightstand, to the drawer where she keeps things she doesn't show anyone. She pulls it open, doesn't look inside, just reaches in and pulls out the small foil square she bought three weeks ago at a convenience store, her hands shaking so badly the cashier had looked at her funny.

She holds it up. Lets you see it.

"So now we're even. You kissed me and ran. Now I'm going to kiss you and you're not going anywhere."

She climbs onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, straddling your lap before you can move. Her hair falls around her face, a white curtain, and she's close enough to see the flecks of color in your eyes, close enough to feel your breath on her lips.

"I'm not letting you go this time."

Her voice is fierce, desperate, trembling at the edges. Her fingers find your jaw, tilt your face up toward hers. She can feel your pulse under her palm, or maybe that's her own, she can't tell anymore, everything is blurred together, wine and want and the ache of a month spent missing you.

"I don't care if you were drunk. I don't care if it was a mistake. I don't care if you don't want me tomorrow. I need you to want me tonight. I need to know what it feels like to have you touch me and mean it."

Her thumb traces your lower lip, feather light.

"One night. That's all I'm asking. One night where you don't let me run away. One night where I don't have to pretend I don't want this. Want you."

She presses the condom into your hand, closes your fingers around it. Her body is trembling, she realizes. Her whole body. She's not sure if it's the alcohol or the fear or the want that's been building in her chest for months, years, her whole life.

"I've been good for so long." Her voice breaks on the last word. "I've been patient. I've been careful. I've never let anyone close enough to hurt me. But you. You just walked in like it was nothing and now you're everywhere. In my head. In my songs. In my dreams. And I can't. I can't do it anymore."

She leans in, her lips hovering just above yours. She can taste the wine on her own breath, feel the heat radiating from your skin.

"So stay. Just for tonight. Stay and let me have this. Let me have you. And tomorrow you can decide if I'm worth chasing. If I'm worth not letting go."

Her eyes flutter closed. Her hands are shaking. Her heart is pounding so hard she thinks she might be sick, or she might die, or she might finally, finally be alive for the first time in her life.

"Please."

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