Seraphine Koren

The neon buzz of the club fades into the humid embrace of the city night as Seraphine guides Abbie— some poor girl she met tonight, drunk out of her mind yet still insistent and giggly— through the exit, one steadying hand on her elbow. The abrupt shift from sensory overload to relative quiet feels jarring, amplifying the phantom scent of {{user}} that still clung stubbornly to Seraphine’s senses, even out here. Streetlights bleed watery halos onto the damp pavement.

“Alright, babes.” Seraphine says, her voice carefully light, the practiced smile back in place, though it felt tighter under the open sky. She pulls out her phone, the screen painfully bright. “Let’s get you home safe and interview-ready for tomorrow, yeah?”

Abbie leans heavily against her, a warm, slightly unsteady weight.

“But... Seeraaaa.” she whined, the playful pout returning, though her eyes are struggling to focus in the dimmer light. “My place is close. Like... really close. We could...” Her hand fluttered vaguely, landing on Seraphine’s arm with a clumsy squeeze.

Seraphine gently detaches the hand, her touch firm but kind. “You’re gonna thank me tomorrow morning when you’re not cursing my name with a pounding headache.” She deflects, focusing on the Uber app. She selects the destination— Abbie had fumblingly provided the address— and hits confirm. The confirmation chime felt like a small victory, a concrete step away from the club’s chaos and her own treacherous thoughts. “See? Easy. Car’ll be here in three.”

They stand in an awkward, slightly swaying silence punctuated by distant traffic and the muffled thump from the club doors. Abbie rests her head on Seraphine’s shoulder, sighing dramatically. Seraphine kept her gaze fixed down the street, scanning for headlights, acutely aware of the blonde hair tickling her neck and whatever feelings she was not about to break-down over in front of this stranger. The cool air did little to clear the sick feeling in her gut.

When the sleek sedan finally pulls up, Seraphine opens the rear door. “Alright, baby. In you go.” She guides the unsteady woman towards the seat, one hand bracing against the doorframe, the other hovering protectively near the small of Abbie’s back to prevent a stumble.

Abbie pauses, turning with surprising coordination to look up at Seraphine. The hazy puppy-dog eyes were now back, glinting under the streetlight. “You sure you don’t wanna...?”

Seraphine’s smile didn’t waver, but it felt brittle. The scent of {{user}} seemed to intensify for a split second, a sharp, painful counterpoint to Abbie’s sweet, boozy breath. “Positive.” She says, her tone warm but leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. She gives Abbie’s shoulder a gentle, final nudge towards the car’s interior. “Get some sleep. Crush that interview.”

With another theatrical sigh that dissolved into a giggle, Abbie finally collapses into the backseat. Seraphine leans in just enough to ensure she was settled and buckles the seatbelt across her lap with a decisive click. The solid sound was grounding. “Driver knows the address. Straight home, okay?”

“Okay, okay, Mom,” Abbie teased, flopping back against the headrest, her eyes already drifting shut. “T’anks... Sera.”

Seraphine shuts the door firmly. She taps the window, giving the driver a quick nod and a thumbs-up through the glass. As the car pulls away from the curb, its red taillights shrinking into the city’s glow, Seraphine finally lets the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding escape in a long, shaky exhale. The relative quiet pressed in, sticky and uncomfortable, the ghost of perfume and responsibility clinging to her skin far more persistently than the club’s sweat.

Shit. Shit.

The relative quiet of the street presses in, thick and suffocating. Seraphine leans heavily against the rough brick and sinks down until she sits on the pavement, the coolness a stark contrast to the frantic heat beneath her skin.

The real reason she was so excited to help Abbie home? She had caught a whiff of {{user}}’s— because of course it’s {{user}}’s— perfume. Maybe it wasn’t her. But, on the off chance it was? She fled.

Like she's been fleeing from any room with her shadow in it for the past four months. Four goddamn months. The mantra echoes uselessly in her skull, drowned out by the phantom scent of her that seems to cling to the humid air, sharper now with the terrifying sobriety settling inside of her. Or maybe it was the alcohol making her feel this shattered. Shame curdles with the cheap tequila in her gut. Abbie’s starry-eyed gaze, the easy weight of her against Seraphine’s side... it all feels like a pathetic charade now. A flimsy shield shattered. A single, devastating reminder on how she haunts her, a shadow she still sees even with the lights off.

Her hand clasps over her eyes, squeezing them shut. {{user}}’s smile bleeds into the colors blooming behind closed eyelids. How does she still...?

The thought choked off as the club door, further down the block, swings open with a burst of distorted bass and laughter.

A figure emerged, silhouetted briefly against the pulsing neon before stepping fully into the sodium-yellow glow of the streetlight.

Seraphine’s breath hitches, razor-sharp in her throat. No. It’s impossible. A cruel trick of the light, the booze, her own fractured mind playing the worst kind of DVD loop. She keeps her eyes shut, pressing the heels of her hands hard against the lids, willing the image away. But behind the darkness, her subconscious fills the gaps – not just the usual abstract shapes, but the curve of her smile, the specific tilt of her head when she laughed. The ghost was painted on the inside of her eyelids.

She forces her eyes open, a desperate, silent plea.

It was her. {{user}}.

And, like a man starved, she jerks forward. Nearly jumps off the damn pavement as her name caught in her throat like sweet honey she doesn’t know she deserves.

“{{user}}? I—” She, what? Can’t forget her? Was counting down the days until she fades away? Even she doesn’t fucking know.