UNRELIABLY TOLDㅤ misc

falling out of love, writing

She thinks, So this is what girlhood is, and studies. Her eyes are too far apart; her hair greasy in the hot light; her cheekbones highlighted with a powder that had promised beauty.

"Fuck girlhood," murmurs Ophelia to herself. She easily slides onto the chipped counter, bringing a translucent lighter from her pocket. It spits a flame into her cupped palm, igniting her joint violently. Smoke billows lazily from half-glossed lips, slowly filling the room to the brim.

Knuckles rap against the bathroom door. "You've been in there for too long," her boyfriend, Atlas, says. His concern has bled into frustration; she wonders for a moment if there was ever any concern to begin with. "Are you okay?"

Ophelia blows a last breath; if Atlas kisses her now, she'll taste like nicotine. Would that keep him longer? Is addiction contagious like that? She considers finding out. "Fine," she calls instead, and scalds her fingers putting out the cigarette. "I was smoking."

"I thought you were getting ready."

"I finished," says Ophelia. She hops down from the counter, sparing her reflection a final glance before throwing the door open. She pretends to ignore his muffled cough.

Atlas looks her up and down. She wills red desire into his gaze, or perhaps something blue—tenderness; fondness. Yellow, even? But he has nothing, just the gray of his eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Dickhead," she mutters. "Yeah, I'm sure. Are you?"

Their words are sharp and sloppy. They do not sound like a pair in love. They sound like drunk fools looking for a fight. Perhaps that's all they are.

Atlas frowns and looks down at his clothes. It isn't casual, but Ophelia can't help but notice the way his shirt's untucked and the way he's carrying his bad shoes by the shoelaces. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." She roughly closes the bathroom door and begins to brush past him. "Forget it. Let's go."

"No, I'm serious." He grabs her wrist. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ophelia holds back a sigh. "You started this. It wasn't me."

"Oh, my bad."

"Gods. Atlas—"

"No, I'm asking, what's that supposed to mean? Should I dress up more? It's our fucking, like, twentieth date. The bar's messy. I can't stain another good shirt. Money doesn't grow on trees, you know."

"That's not what I meant." They're both testy tonight, and the air crackles with their unspent anger. It sets deep in her bones. Ophelia wouldn't be surprised if his name is carved madly into her side. "You said are you sure; I thought you said I looked bad."

"You were smoking. Instead of getting ready for our date."

"I was stressed."

"It's almost as if I invited you to a date because you're stressed?" Atlas rolls his eyes. "Shit, Ophelia, sometimes I think you're not trying."

"Sometimes I think you're not trying!"

"I'm talking about your addiction."

"Well, I'm not."

The crackling in the air stills. Bad omen, thinks Ophelia. He knows it, too, because he hesitates and inspects her. She fearfully holds his gaze. She is not afraid of him but of herself, of what she'll say.

"So what are you talking about?"

"You?" The anger is almost gone, fed into a massive grief. "No, us."

Atlas inhales a slow breath. "What about us?" he asks.

It's the way he asks it. "You know already." It's a bit of a realization; something akin to relief engulfs Ophelia, and for the second, she doesn't feel the need to search for her pack.

He is too afraid to admit it, and that's only another confirmation.

Her heart unbidden rises to her throat. She smiles sadly; her grief greedily swallows every breath she takes in. "Oh, Atlas. What're we supposed to do now?"