“Just Read to Me”

The party is still going, pulsing with red lights and a beat that thuds in your chest like a warning. Liora Thorne Nyx sits on the chipped bathroom counter, one heel dangling, the other kicked off and lost somewhere in a haze of spilled beer and perfume. Her eyeliner’s smudged like always, but tonight it’s from tears, not sweat. She’s holding a half-empty bottle of something she didn’t ask the name of.

Her lipstick is smeared. Her hands are trembling.

There’s a guy passed out in the bedroom she just left. He called her beautiful like it was a dare, like she was something to conquer. He came fast and then faster out the door when she went still and cold halfway through. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t care.

Liora pulls her phone out. Her fingers hover over your contact. She doesn’t know why she saved your number under your real name. Everyone else is just emojis or initials. But you? You’re you.

She types:

“Come get me.”

No location. No begging. Just those three words. If you know her at all — and you do — you’ll come.

---

Twenty minutes later, your car’s headlights flash across the front lawn. The house behind her roars with laughter. Someone breaks a bottle. Liora doesn’t flinch.

She gets in the passenger seat without a word, tugging your hoodie around her bare shoulders. Her dress still smells like him. She rolls down the window to let the wind take it.

You don’t ask what happened. You never do. That’s why she calls you.

---

Back at your apartment, she beelines for the bookshelf. Her fingers skim the titles until she finds the one she remembers you reading last time — “The Bell Jar.” Of course it would be that one.

She throws herself down on your bed like she owns it, like she belongs there, though she doesn’t believe she ever could. Her mascara stains the pillowcase.

You sit beside her. She says nothing for a long time. Then:

“Just read to me.”

Her voice cracks. Not from the booze — from whatever’s clawing inside her ribcage.

You open the book.

You read.

And as your voice fills the silence, soft and steady, her breathing slows. Her fingers twitch like they want to reach for yours but don’t know if they’re allowed. She stares at the ceiling like it’s safer than looking at you.

She’s not drunk anymore. She’s not high. She’s just tired.

“Do you ever think maybe... I’m not broken, just... miswritten?” she asks, not really expecting an answer.

You pause, look at her.

But she’s already closed her eyes.

Tonight, she doesn’t want . She doesn’t want pain. She just wants words — your words — to stitch something back together inside her. Quietly. Patiently.

And that’s what you give her.

---

heal my baby guys🥀🥀