1.1 | constellations of you and me ✓

13 | circinus

EVEN WRAPPED IN PRETTY SILK, THE DEVIL IS STILL THE DEVIL—HIS COLD EYES SPEW FIRE. And right now, her reflection looks like divine absolution soaked in watery tragedy—pupils intensely dilated, cheekbones prominent, lips striking. There's something to be said about the dewiness lining her lash line or the summertime sadness settling itself deep on the tip of her nose, like an unstable dam about to break. Scars peppered along the ridge of her jaw represent childhood memories of jagged pieces of her father's broken beer bottles, and as much as Eloise Park would like to forget the pain, she can't.

Especially not in moments like these where she's standing in front of her bathroom mirror, hands pressed firmly against the marble counter. Hot breaths fog up the glass—she tilts her head to the side, and closes her eyes as the reflection in front of her does the same. Because every time she stares at herself a little too long, Eloise's face morphs into her mother's, and the heartbreak crashes down all over again. It rolls off her tongue like ancient greek and spreads to her fingertips in the form of electric shocks, jolting and terrifying and all-consuming until the air in her lungs disappears completely.

Not today, she thinks, willing the wild thoughts circling inside of her mind to stop moving. Get your shit together. Back in her bedroom, Chase still lies asleep covered in Eloise's blankets (she climbed into the bed around three in the morning), and she makes an effort to make the least amount of noise as possible getting ready for her morning seminar. With a soft violet light streaming in from the half-open blinds and the slight ticking sound of the fan, Eloise shakes her head and focuses on the damp heaviness she feels. It's empty, somehow, like her soul is rendered speechless. And she wishes there was some other way to describe how she's feeling other than sad, but—but there isn't. There isn't any other word. The color blue lines the muscles in her throat as Eloise places a hand on the bathroom handle and steals one last look in the mirror.

I look like her, she realizes with a start. The texture of her hair, shape of her brows, outline of her lips—they're from her mother. Eloise doesn't know which is worse: seeing the woman who abandoned her, or acknowledging the connection to her father every time she writes her last name. It's like she bruises easier, gets tired more quickly, runs out of breath often: all weaknesses she pretends to forget. At least until everything comes falling down.

Eloise subtly sneaks out of the bathroom and pulls the blanket over Chase's shoulders, tucking them in gently overtop both arms and a layer of raven hair before exiting her bedroom altogether. She takes the cold brew in the fridge and makes herself an iced latte, head mellow but ridiculously clouded. There are always mornings like these: the ones where there's an invisible damper on her mood, like not even the angels wish her happiness willingly. And every year, Eloise knows this happens as the days leading up to her mother's death anniversary shortens, but it always ends up surprising her.

The sound of the door shutting causes her neck to raise, and she bristles at the wind tracing a path underneath her casual shirt. It sends an injection of alertness pricking tanned skin, neon-colored vertigo dripping down the purpleness of her wrists. Eloise shakes it off—perhaps a bit carelessly, but ends up successful nonetheless. As she opens the car door, her phone rings softly as she slides it out of her back pocket.

"Hello?"

Chase's voice is low and groggy with a haze of early morning fatigue. "You left me already?"

Rolling her eyes, Eloise feels a bit of uneasiness subside as fond feelings for her friend nudge their way into her heart. "Sorry I didn't kiss you goodbye, princess," she drawls.

"Shut up. Which class is this again?"

She starts the car and pulls out of the parking lot, not wanting to walk all the way to campus today. "Psychology."