I woke up to the sound of her coughing again.
It was wet and deep, like her lungs had been scraping the bottom of a dried-out riverbed for moisture. One cough, then two more. Then silence. She always stopped just long enough to make me wonder if she'd stopped breathing. I stayed in bed and waited for the fourth. It came late.
I sat up.
The room was cold, despite the June sun bleeding through the blinds. My blanket clung to my legs like it didn't want to let go. I didn't blame it. Today had that taste in the air—the kind that settled in your molars and made you grind your teeth for no reason. You just knew something was going to go wrong.
I dressed in yesterday's jeans, a black hoodie two sizes too big, and tied my hair back with a rubber band I found on the floor. It snapped halfway through, so my ponytail hung like it gave up halfway through trying. Fitting.
She was already in the kitchen when I came out.
Mara—my caretaker, my... whatever she counted as—sat hunched over the table, blanket around her shoulders, a cigarette balanced between two fingers like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Coffee steamed beside her but hadn't been touched. She looked like a paper person someone had left out in the rain.
"You have school," she said, voice raspy.
I didn't tell her I knew. I just grabbed a banana off the counter and peeled it, as if I had time to enjoy it.
"You take the meds?"
"I'm fine."
"That's not what I asked."
"I said I'm fine." She didn't argue, which meant she either believed me or didn't care. I didn't want to figure out which today.
Outside, the street was empty. Ashpointe didn't wake up all at once—it yawned and stretched and remembered it existed. It was the kind of town where everyone knew what you did last summer because they were probably watching from the porch. My family had been one of those families—the kind people waved at from church pews and whispered about from behind soup cans at the corner store.
Not anymore.
Halfway down Marigold Lane, the strap on my backpack snapped. It wasn't even dramatic. Just a little snap, and the whole thing sagged to one side like it couldn't take me either. I bent to fix it—and that's when I slipped.
It had rained the night before. The curb was slick with mud, and I went down like a movie character in slow motion: palms scraping gravel, jeans ripping at the knee, hoodie streaked brown and green from shoulder to hip.
I didn't cry. Didn't curse. Just sat there and stared at the mess for a second.
Of course.
Of course, this would happen today.
By the time I limped into first period—wet, stained, late—I already hated everyone I hadn't even seen yet. Ms. Redgrave didn't give me a second to breathe.
"You're fifteen minutes late, Iris."
"I know."
"You smell like a swamp."
"I know."
"If you think you can just—"
"I fell," I said flatly, not even looking at her. "Can I sit?"
The silence after that was tight. Someone coughed. Someone else laughed quietly.
Ms. Redgrave clenched her jaw and turned back to the board. "Sit."
I walked to the back, head down, heart pounding with that hollow ache that feels exactly like shame but isn't. Two girls near the window whispered too loud to be subtle.
"I thought she was gonna disappear after what happened—"
"She probably should've. Wasn't it her fault?"
Their words pried into my skull like loose nails. I sat anyway. Opened my notebook. Pretended I was somewhere else.
Math passed like molasses. History was worse. No one looked at me directly, but their eyes lingered. I was the story they'd already heard but couldn't stop telling themselves again.
By three o'clock, I wanted to disappear into a drainpipe and never come out.
Instead, I clocked in at the gas station.
The uniform didn't fit right. The register was sticky. The smell of fried oil and burnt coffee had permanently settled into the walls like an old ghost. I stood behind the counter with my hair still wet from the rain, the knee of my jeans split open like a wound, and waited for humanity to prove me wrong.
It didn't.
The first customer was a man in his fifties who complained about the price of gas, if I were the CEO of Shell. The next dropped a bottle of soda, watched it roll behind the counter, then asked me to fetch it like I wasn't a person.
"Careful with those legs, sweetheart," he said. "You're not limping for fun, are ya?"
I stared at him until he walked out laughing.
By the fifth customer, my throat was tight and my smile hurt.
The sixth was a girl from my class. She didn't look me in the eye. Just bought gum and left like I was a stain she didn't want on her sneakers.
The last was a woman with red lipstick and a child on her hip. She handed me a crumpled ten-dollar bill and said, "Don't let the world make you useless, honey. Your parents died, not you."
I gave her her change without a word.
She walked out. The bell above the door jingled like it was proud of her.
I stood there for a while, hands on the counter, staring through my reflection in the glass. I looked like a smear. Like a shadow, someone forgot to clean off the mirror. Stood behind the counter long after the red-lipstick woman left, just watching my reflection in the glass door like it might give me something—some clue, some answer, some reason to keep existing in the shape of this girl everyone wished would disappear.
The clock on the wall ticked louder than necessary. I checked it once. Then twice.
And then I flipped the Closed sign before the night shift dude even arrived. If anyone asked, I'd just say I had a migraine. Or food poisoning. Or maybe I'd just say nothing at all, which usually worked better.
The outside air felt colder than it should've. I pulled my hoodie up and started the walk home. My legs ached. My knees burned. My shoes squelched with every step like they wanted me to notice how broken everything was. Every step felt like dragging my body across glass.
Ashpointe didn't glow at night—it flickered. Streetlights buzzed and popped overhead, moths swirling like lost thoughts around them. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, someone was yelling. This town didn't sleep; it simmered.
Half a block from home, my phone buzzed.
I checked the screen. Amber (Diner Hell).
"Hey babe, I'm throwing up my soul. any chance u can take my shift plspls I'll owe u big ❤️"
I stared at the message. Then stared at the stars overhead like maybe they'd blink and swallow me.
"Of course," I muttered to no one. "Of course."
The diner was two streets over. I turned, changed direction, and didn't even bother replying.
The break room smelled like old cologne and wet rags. I changed into the uniform—a white button-up with mustard stains that weren't mine and a red apron with my name badly stitched on the chest. Still didn't touch the dried blood on my knee. Or the gravel in my palm.
There wasn't enough time.
The diner was slow. It always was this late. A few drunk guys came in around midnight, slurred their orders, tipped in quarters, and left a mess that would take me twenty minutes to wipe up. A girl with glitter smeared on her cheeks cried into a milkshake without ordering anything. I gave her napkins and didn't ask questions.
I was already scrubbing a booth when the bell over the door dinged like it hated me.
He walked in like he owned the place—loud, sagging in a leather jacket that looked too small, a face that had given up trying to be likable, and a voice that thundered before he even sat down.
"Hey! Service!"
I exhaled through my nose, tossed the rag on the cart, and walked over to his booth.
"Welcome to Benny's. What can I get you?"
He squinted at me, then laughed. Loud, slow, mean. "Well I'll be damned. You're that cursed girl, ain't ya? From that family that blew up or whatever."
I didn't blink. Didn't move.
"Order?" I asked, tone as flat as pavement.
He grinned, showing too many teeth. "Didn't expect you to be my type, y'know. Pretty in that sad, 'broken bird' way. Wanna come with me after your shift? I'll fix you up real nice."
My stomach churned. My throat itched with heat. Still, I stayed frozen in the frame.
"Your order?"
He scowled. "Feisty. Fine. Chili. Cornbread. And a soda. But you better smile when you bring it."
I walked away without saying anything.
The cook didn't ask questions. I waited while the chili bubbled in its pot, the kind of slop that burned going down but didn't taste like much of anything. I put it on a tray with the cornbread and soda and carried it to his booth like I didn't want to slam it into the table.
He didn't reach for the tray.
He reached for me.
Fingers brushed against the back pocket of my jeans—no, not brushed. Tapped. Like I was something he could order off the menu and take home in a doggy bag.
Something in me broke.
I didn't think.
I just grabbed the bowl of chili and flung it into his face.
He screamed. Not because it was hot—it wasn't. But because humiliation always stung worse than heat.
And of course—that was when the manager walked in.
"WHAT THE HELL, IRIS?"
He was already on his knees next to the man, handing him napkins, apologizing, practically licking the floor clean with how fast he groveled.
"She attacked me!" the man bellowed. "I want her fired!"
I stood there, hands empty, eyes glazed.
The manager turned to me, red-faced and trembling. "You're suspended. Go home. I'll call you tomorrow."
I didn't answer. Just walked into the break room, changed slowly, folded the uniform with shaky hands, and left.
I didn't go home.
I went to the church.
It was the tallest building in town—three stories, maybe. The doors were locked, but I didn't need the inside. I needed the roof.
The climb up the fire escape behind it was rough. My knee screamed. My palms bled again where the gravel had buried itself. Still, I climbed.
And when I reached the edge, I stood there.
Just... stood.
The town looked different from up here. Smaller. Quieter. Like a diorama built by someone who thought sadness made a good story.
The wind tugged at my hoodie. The ledge was rough under my shoes.
I didn't cry.
I didn't speak.
I just looked out over Ashpointe, the place where people knew how you were going to die before they knew your last name.
The wind picked up, brushing my cheeks like fingers too gentle to belong to this world. I blinked up at the sky, hollow and wide and bruised with clouds that swallowed the stars. The edge of the church roof stayed right where it was, steady under my shoes. I stared down at the tiny sleepy town like maybe I could fall and dissolve into it.
"What would even happen if I walked off?" I murmured to no one. "Would the ground catch me? Would anyone care?"
I shuffled an inch closer to the ledge, looked down again, then wrinkled my nose.
"Nah. Too dramatic," I said aloud, lips twisting dryly. "That'd just make people talk more."
My gaze flicked to the sky again, like it owed me answers. "Maybe something subtle. A slit wrist in a full tub, maybe. Or pills. Or a quiet gunshot. No mess. Just out."
The words fell out of me like old teeth. Rotten, but soft.
I didn't realize I'd gone quiet until a voice behind me cut the air clean.
"Kinda late for soul-searching, don't you think?"
I turned my head slowly.
There he was—like a figment pulled from static. Messy brown hair tousled by the wind, hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hands in his pockets like he'd been up here all his life. Just… standing in the dim like it was nothing.
I stared at him for a beat too long.
Then I laughed.
Not the cute kind. Not the type that bubbles. It was a full-body, eyes-wet, shoulders-shaking kind of laugh. One that didn't ask permission.
"Soul-searching," I finally echoed, breath hitching. "God, I wish I was looking for that. I don't even know what I'm looking for."
He tilted his head, crooked smile. "Terrible day?"
I nodded once. "Yeah. It's been shit."
He shrugged and walked a little closer to the edge, but didn't crowd me. "I'm not here for soul-searching either," he said. "Heard someone up here. Thought maybe it was a ghost. Turns out just a girl in hoodie-mode."
"Yeah?" I said, eyebrow lifting.
"This is my chill spot," he added. "My secret getaway. Stargazing's insane from up here. Everything disappears for a bit. Even this town."
"Star-gazing," I repeated. "Haven't had time to look at anything lately. Everything just looks… grey."
He looked up at the sky like it was trying to apologize for something. "Alright, Soul Searcher," he said, grinning. "Watch 'em with me. Trust me—it ain't that grey."
I don't know why I smiled. But I did.
I followed him to the far side of the roof where—oddly enough—there was a blanket spread out and a beat-up pillow tucked into the corner like this wasn't his first time breaking in. He dropped down like gravity didn't apply to him. I sat, slower, ginger with the bruises I hadn't let myself feel until now.
I looked around, then down at the blanket. "Are you even allowed to be up here?"
"Nope," he said immediately, grinning sideways. "Are you?"
"Nah. Snuck in."
He nodded sagely. "Well then. Rule-breakers. That's interesting."
I settled back beside him, my fingers curling into the blanket's edge, suddenly conscious of how quiet everything got.
Then I tilted my head, studying him. "Wait. You don't know me?"
He blinked at me like that was the weirdest part of tonight. "Are you a celebrity or something?"
I let out a soft laugh, more tired than amused. "No. More like the very opposite."
He watched me a second longer but didn't push.
I didn't say another word either.
The stars blinked above us—one by one—as if slowly, painfully, the world was remembering how to light itself again.