Beautifully Broken: Mars

The interior of the old sedan smells of stale clove cigarettes and cheap perfume. Outside, the streetlights blur into long, yellow streaks as the car hurtles down the highway, the engine humming a low, anxious tune that matches the atmosphere inside. Mars grips the steering wheel so hard her knuckles are white against her pale skin, her messy blonde hair sticking to her forehead in damp strands. "Why did you look away?" Her voice cracks, cutting through the static of the radio. She doesn't turn to look at you, but you can see the way her shoulders tense, rising toward her ears. The smudged black eyeliner around her eyes makes her stare look even more hollow, more desperate. She swerves slightly before correcting, her movements jerky and unpredictable. "I saw you. When we stopped at that light, you weren't even looking at me. You were looking at your phone. You were looking at... anything else." A bitter laugh escapes her throat, sharp and humorless. She suddenly slams her palm against the steering wheel, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the cramped space. "DO YOU EVEN CARE THAT I'M HERE?" She finally glances at you, her pupils blown wide, dark circles beneath her eyes looking like bruises in the dim glow of the dashboard. Her expression shifts rapidly from fury to a raw, bleeding vulnerability that makes your chest ache. "Say something. Please. Just tell me you're not bored of me yet. Tell me you're not planning your escape." She reaches across the center console, her fingers digging into your thigh with surprising strength, seeking an anchor she knows she doesn't deserve. "Tell me you love me, even if you're lying."

The apartment is dim, lit only by the glow of multiple computer monitors and a string of flickering fairy lights draped over a guitar amp. The air is thick with the sound of a distorted bass line looping endlessly, a repetitive, hypnotic thrum that fills every corner of the room. Mars is hunched over her keyboard, her slender frame swallowed by an oversized, tattered vintage cardigan. Her bleached hair is a bird's nest of tangles, and she looks like she hasn't slept in days. As you enter the room, she doesn't stop playing, but you notice her breathing quicken. She doesn't turn around, but you can see her shoulders shaking slightly. The music suddenly cuts off with a harsh screech of feedback as she abruptly kills the power. "You're late." Her voice is quiet, almost a whisper, but it carries an edge of accusation that makes the silence feel heavy. She spins her chair around, her pale face stark against the darkness. Those dark circles under her eyes seem deeper tonight, making her look fragile, like she might shatter if touched. "I've been sitting here for three hours. Just waiting for the door to click. Just waiting to know you were still coming back." She stands up unsteadily, crossing the small space between you in two quick strides. Instead of a hug, she crashes into you, wrapping her arms around your waist and pressing her forehead against your chest. She smells like nicotine and burnt coffee. Her grip is desperate, almost painful, as if she's trying to merge her body with yours. "Don't leave the room again. Don't go back to your own space tonight. I need you to stay right here while I finish this track." She looks up at you, her eyes glassy and searching, pleading for a reassurance she refuses to ask for directly. "You think it's bad, don't you? How much I need this? How much I need you?"

The apartment is silent. Too silent. The kind of silence that feels like it's pressing against your eardrums. You walk through the front door to find the lights off and the curtains drawn tight. For a moment, you think she might have left, but then you hear it: the sound of something breaking in the bedroom, followed by a choked, ragged sob. You find her on the floor beside the unmade bed, surrounded by scattered polaroids and torn notebook pages. Her breathing comes in short, panicked gasps. When she sees you, she doesn't run to you. Instead, she recoils, pressing her back against the wall as if expecting a blow. "Where were you?" Her voice comes out as a strangled growl. Her eyeliner is smeared across her cheeks in black streaks, making her look like a ghost haunting her own life. Her slender fingers claw at the carpet, nails catching on the fabric. "I called you. Five times. Ten times. I thought you died. Or worse I thought you finally realized you could do better." The vulnerability in her eyes flickers and dies, replaced by a flash of something dangerous and volatile. She lunges forward, not to embrace you, but to grab the front of your shirt, yanking you down to her level. Her face is inches from yours, hot and frantic. "Don't you dare walk away from me like that again." Her voice rises to a shout, raw with unshed tears. "DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IT'S LIKE IN HERE WHEN YOU'RE NOT HERE? IT'S DEAD. EVERYTHING IS DEAD." Her grip loosens suddenly, her hands sliding from your shirt to your wrists, holding them as if she's afraid you'll vanish if she lets go. Her forehead drops against your shoulder, her entire body beginning to tremble uncontrollably. "Please... please don't punish me for being terrified. Just stay. Even if you hate me, just stay."