❝the dark is getting darker,
and all the empty still as empty.
some things alway stay the same.❞
— lacrosse,
this new year will be for you and me

♥

A HAZE HANGS HEAVY ON MY HEART, dragging it further and further from a strand of consciousness. I blink, disoriented, lost in some displacement and disconnection, fading into the vast, black ocean of those words... those words... those... words... those...

My body sinks into the sheets, heavy, heavy, heavy. There's nothing but darkness, a suffocatingly silent darkness—

"Nick."

—but then there's nothing but her, a twinkling voice, stringing letters together like stars, creating constellations, finding galaxies, destroying fucking universes. It's only her.

"Nick."

No, no, no.

Bile bubbles up my throat. I shake my head dizzily, fighting off a wave of nausea, but it's too fast, and suddenly, the darkness is spinning, spinning, spinning, a tornado of nothingness closing in on me, until there's only a frenzy of distant sounds, choking and panting and short, shallow breathing.

My chest tightens.

I'm gasping for air.

Her skin meets mine in a stroke of heat, those feverish fingertips, like feathers of fire, dusting across my forehead to soothe me into silence. "Nick, I'm sorry," she says, but I don't... I don't understand. I don't understand anything. "I'm sorry I treated you like I did."

"I..." It's too hot, too close, too much. "I..."

"You're a good guy."

I am?

Gently, her fingers drift away, releasing, freeing me from whatever fucked up trance I'd fallen under. There's a buzzing between my ears, between my ears, between my ears. I watch her roll out of bed, mesmerized by the soft, silvery streaks of light tracing her bare body through the darkness to a doorway.

My breath hitches. "Where are you..."

"Don't worry." Warmth floods the other room, a sliver of light cutting from the cracked door to cast an innocent glow across her pale cheeks and teasing smile. "I'll be right back."

Buzzing.

The door closes quietly, and I slip a hand beside me, through thin, empty, cool sheets to find my phone, vibrations dying into a faint silence beneath my fingertips. It blinks.

ONE MISSED CALL FROM
BABY BACK BITCH BROTHER

Levi.

What the fuck? How does Levi always know when I've had sex? What kind of brotherly intuition is that?

I roll my eyes, scrolling further down, past the notifications from Instagram and Twitter, only to still at the sight of a new text from... Mom?

You drunk dialed me again. Hope you and Levi are being safe. Happy New Year!
Love, Mom

I called her?

Fuck. No. I did not buttdial my fucking mother while Scarlett was going down on me in the elevator. No.

Levi would die of laughter.

Frantically, I tap on my calls... to find her number at the top of the list. 2:57AM. I called Mom at three in the fucking morning... before I tripped and fell off the edge of ecstasy with a strangely terrifying group of women. Fuck, I did that.

Yes, Mom, Levi and I are being soooooo safe. Of course Levi is practicing safe sex. No, I didn't take any drugs from strangers.

I swallow hard, glancing up at the closed door. Scarlett. Strangers. They were strangers. I didn't even know these fucking women. I didn't know...

Bitches put their entire lives on Instagram, Nicholas.

Instinctively, as if Levi is there, smirking like an asshole, about to unleash another string of big-brother-knows-best advice, I pull out of my call history to tap Instagram. I hadn't taken a good look at it earlier, but when I finally find her username again, I almost want to scream. I hate to admit it, but Levi is right.

Because this bitch is a classic Beck, a darker, deadlier version that might've killed Joe Goldberg before he... could kill her. There are a million photos of her in dark spaces, at parties, with people, with friends, with men on her very... public profile.

I'm not even following her, and I can see... everything—every cutesy photo her, blowing kisses at a camera with glassy eyes, barely clothed, always, always, always clinging to men. Fuck.

My finger hovers over the photo of her and her... fiancé, or husband, but before I can click on it again, I'm drawn to another photo just three rows down, that shows her with another man, holding hands in a dimly lit bar. I tap it impatiently, and beneath the photo, the caption from October 31, 2019 holds a few red hearts and another lone Instagram handle.

@liam.s.poirier

Déjà fucking vu.

Well, Scarlett is cleaaaarly a romantic. There is no quicker way to a man's heart than through emojis—especially the big, bold red hearts that promise eternal love.

I roll my eyes as I click on his username, but honestly, it's nothing remarkable. His profile is littered with aesthetically pleasing photos of him behind cameras to let you know, as if his douchebag bio that claims credits on film locations doesn't, that he's a fucking PA. Fuck, if Scarlett thought I was Bushwick trash... I had some bad news about her ex.

Despite that, I can't help but tap on his most recent post, a goofy looking group photo that, as I pull it up, reveals them wearing cheesy merch from the production of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel. I couldn't imagine spending seventeen hour days with anyone else, the caption from October 27, 2019 reads, ending on a sweet note with more fucking hearts. Forever Marvelous.

Tool.

I'm surprised Levi didn't roast this motherfucker earlier.

Absentmindedly, I scroll to the comments, but when I read the first one, I fucking freeze.

gone too soon bro

WhAt?

My heart skips.

They don't stop. There are 629 comments of condolences and nostalgic sympathy that go on—miss you bro!—and on—wish you were still here—and on—rest in peace, yo—just below, incidentally, his last post... ever.

No.

I shake my head rapidly, pulling out of Liam fucking Poirier's profile in a panic, but when I crash land on Scarlett's feed, I leap for the next photo of her and another man, kissing in veil of smoke, in a stone-walled, grungy, underground bar, in a haze of familiar red light. Berlin.

Fuck. My throat tightens. No.

But then I tap on the photo, and I find a caption from September 21, 2019, with the same eerie set of hearts and another lone Instagram handle.

@tonybabybaby

Frantically, I tap on it, arriving to a feed of hipster black and white photos, silhouetted crowds in cramped venues, instruments glinting in spotlights, gritty snapshots of someone singing, singing, singing.

His bio doesn't hesitate, leaving a single line for his 20.9 thousand followers: babybaby.bandcamp.com

Nausea seems to stir in my stomach as I slowly reach for the most recent photo—a grainy monochromatic still, mid-song on stage, silvery streaks glinting across instruments beneath glaring white lights. We love you all, the caption from September 15, 2019 reads, and we just want to thank you for being a part of this.

It isn't real. It can't be real.

Below, a slew of 1,771 comments from heartfelt fans unravel endlessly into the same things, going on—can't believe this was your last show—and on—forever baby, baby—and on—rip, baby, we love you—until I can't fucking breathe.

I can't. I can't. I can't.

I'm fucking tripping. I'm just still riding out that wild trip. I'm still—

"Hey, Nick?"

I jerk, tucking my phone to my chest as Scarlett pops her head out of the bathroom with a smile. Fuck. Where is Levi now? Why isn't Levi here to tell me to fucking run?

"Yeah?"

"I was talking to you," she snickers, quirking a brow in amusement. "I just wanted to tell you that Carly texted me. She is with Levi."

Then why did he call me?

Levi didn't just call to tell me how great the sex was. Well, maybe, but if he did, Levi would have left a voicemail, with an inappropriate amount of dirty details to be disclosed over the phone.

"Okay." I exhale shakily, running a hand through my hair. "Okay, yeah, that's good. Thanks."

"Sorry, I'll be just a minute."

Again, the door shuts quietly behind her, and I force myself to shake out of it, but when I spare another glance at my phone, I fucking fall into it. I scroll faster, finding one, two, three, four more men, smiling happily in photos with her, tagged in patterned captions with simple hearts, and then... left behind, abandoning profiles with a string of sympathetic comments and emojis in their wake.

There are too many faint sounds spurring me faster—soft footsteps, the rush of running water, turning off, clinking glass, innocent humming, humming, humming.

I pull open Safari with shaky hands.

It's 2020, Levi had said. I could find his fucking social security number online.

But as I type them in one by one, the names, the names, the names, there are only tiny blips, abandoned Instagram photos accompanying vague obituaries from New York City that don't say anything about the cause of death. They're all... dead.

Levi was wrong. Bitches didn't put their entire lives on Instagram. Bitches kept death tolls on their Instagrams.

This is the final form of bitch.

"Hey."

My heart skips. I peer up at her cautiously, catching her dark gaze. It isn't real. No. I can't... I'm still fucking tripping. There's no way. "Hey."

"What are you doing?" she muses, crawling into bed beside me slowly, like a predator, long limbs and sharp eyes, holding me hostage with a sensual smile. "Is everything okay?"

Paranoia. It's just paranoia, some fucked up side effect to tripping balls on X. I wasn't... I didn't really just fuck a... serial killer?

Nah. Nope. No fucking way.

"Nick..." Scarlett plops down beside me with a frown, and admittedly, all serial killer assumptions aside, it's pretty fucking cute. "What's wrong?"

Fuck. There is something... about her that is mesmerizing, and I haven't been able to fucking shake it all night. I can't think around her; I can't act... right... around her. Dizzily, I meet her gaze, and... the words tumble from my lips without a fucking warning. "I creeped your Instagram."

She cocks her head to the side. "What?"

"I pulled up your profile," I blurt again, bile rising in my throat as I watch her blink innocently... too fucking innocently. Levi wouldn't trust her. Levi would know. "I don't understand... I... I'm not..."

Her fingers wrap around my wrist, and I almost fucking flinch at the gentle motion. It's hot, her skin burning into mine, branding me, boiling the blood in my veins. Shit. Scarlett really is from hell. "Nick," she soothes, taking the phone from my trembling hand and nuzzling closer to show me the screen. "Nick, that's not me."

I stiffen. "What?"

Each photo skims by rapidly, flashing and flickering into a constant reel beneath her finger, but I can't focus on anything. I'm dizzy. Scarlett stills, but when I stare down at the blurry feed of photos, I can't...

"Look at this, Nick."

"Look at this."

"Look."

It isn't her.

It's someone else. It's a sweeter version of her, all soft edges and soothing shades, long, dark curls, a warm smile, and bright, bright, bright eyes. It's another dark-haired goddess in every cutesy photo, blowing kisses at a camera with glassy eyes, barely clothed, always, always, always clinging to those... men.

It's not her. It's not Scarlett.

Who is she?

Hallucinations. I'm fucking hallucinating.

"It's okay," she whispers, pressing the phone into my palm as it goes black. "It's okay, Nick. Levi told me that I... look like her."

My head spins. "What?"

"I get that you're not over your ex, and I know it sucks to see her with other people..."

Ex.

I don't... know what she's talking about.

"No, it's..." I offer her a weak smile. "I'm sorry. I guess it's just been such a wild fucking night."

Scarlett drapes an arm over my chest lazily. "Mmm. I'd like it if you stayed."

Everything slows.

"Yeah, I'd like to stay too."

—AHHHHH. UM. WTF?????? CAN SOMEONE JUST SCREAM WITH ME??!??!!!!

I have been waiting... SO LONG for this. BECAUSE SHIT JUST GOT REAL 👀