The apartment was cold when Kyra stepped inside.
Not physically—the heater worked fine—but empty places always carried a different kind of cold. The kind that settled in the bones, stretched across the walls, and curled around her like a second skin. It was a silence too deep, an absence too loud.
She kicked off her shoes without care, letting them land haphazardly near the door. Her bag slid from her shoulder onto the couch with a dull thud, the only sound in an otherwise motionless space. The emptiness pressed in, heavy and unmoving.
She stood there for a moment, staring at the faint dust settling on the coffee table. The apartment had been hers for over a year now, yet it never quite felt lived in. Nothing ever changed. The furniture sat exactly where it always had. The blankets were folded in the same careless way they had been days ago. The dishes in the sink weren't dirty—just abandoned, untouched, like the place was waiting for someone to come back.
Someone who never would.
Kyra dragged a hand through her damp bangs, ignoring the slight sting behind her eyes. She needed to shake this off.
Without a second thought, she moved toward the bathroom. The space was small, sterile in a way that made her skin itch. She twisted the faucet, steam curling around her as the water splashed against the tile. Her movements were mechanical, practiced. Stripping out of her uniform, stepping under the stream, tilting her head back as the heat pressed into her skin.
She didn't linger. Just long enough to rinse off the day, to wash away the weight clinging to her. The heat didn't burn, but it didn't comfort either. It just was—a dull sensation against a body that carried too much tension, too many locked-up thoughts.
Minutes later, she shut the water off, shaking the excess from her hair before stepping out. The mirror was fogged over.
For a second, she considered not wiping it.
But she did.
And the girl staring back at her felt like a stranger. Pale skin, dark eyes, a tiredness settled too deep for her age. Her black hair clung to her shoulders, strands sticking against her collarbones as beads of water dripped lazily down her arms. She looked... softer like this. Vulnerable in a way she hated.
She turned away before the thought could sink too deep. That wasn't who she was.
The school uniform was a lie. A restriction. A mask.
She walked into her room, the discarded fabric pooling on the floor as she moved straight to her closet. The doors creaked slightly as she pulled them open, fingers brushing past dull, muted tones until they landed on black, lace, and silver accents. She grabbed the corset-style top first, wrapping it around herself before pulling at the laces, adjusting it until it sat snug against her frame. The tightness was familiar—comforting in its own way. Like armor.
The short black skirt followed, layered with lace trim that swayed slightly as she moved. Dark stockings stretched up her thighs, held in place by thin garters that disappeared beneath the hem. Then came the boots. Tall, laced, heavy in a way she liked. Every step would carry weight, presence. She tugged them on, securing them tightly before straightening, and finishing it off with a metal style belt.
Her routine wasn't done.
Reaching toward the nightstand, she carefully pulled out a small case, flipping it open. At school, she had to strip herself down—no piercings, no expression beyond what was expected. But here, this was her space.
One by one, she slid the silver jewelry into place—three upper lobes, simple but noticeable, a snug conch ring, cool against her skin, a helix stud, delicate but sharp, and finally, the industrial bar—cutting through her cartilage in a clean, defining line. She ran a hand through her hair, letting it fall naturally around her shoulders. The damp strands felt heavier, longer, framing her face in a way that made her eyes seem darker.
This version of herself felt easier to wear.
With that, she stood, stretching slightly before heading toward the kitchen. The overhead light buzzed softly as she flipped the switch, casting a dull glow over the space. The apartment had never felt like a home—not in the way it used to. But at least here, she could exist without having to perform.
She wasn't hungry, not really. But her body still asked for something.
Reaching for the fruit basket, she pulled out an apple, setting it onto the cutting board before grabbing a knife. The blade was familiar in her hands. She had done this hundreds of times. Her fingers curled around the handle, pressing down with slow, precise movements, the slices falling neatly to the side.
Until the knife slipped.
A sharp sting.
Kyra froze.
A thin line of red beaded along the tip of her finger. The world seemed to pause—too long, too still.
And then—
She was somewhere else entirely.
One year ago
Kyra had come home expecting nothing.
Nothing unusual. Nothing different.
She had stepped inside, kicked off her shoes, tossed her bag onto the couch. She was sixteen, tired from school, hungry but not enough to eat.
It should have been normal.
But something felt off.
The scent of perfume still lingered in the air. Her mother's perfume. The one she wore on days she wanted to feel better, to pretend things were okay.
Kyra's eyes flicked across the apartment. Everything looked normal. But the longer she stood there, the more she noticed. The cup of tea sitting on the counter, steam long since gone. The neatly folded laundry sitting on the arm of the couch. The slight crack in the bedroom door.
A breath caught in her throat.
The apartment was too still.
She stepped forward. Slowly. Quietly. Like something in the back of her head was already screaming at her not to move.
But she did.
Her fingers touched the edge of the door, pushing it open. And she saw her.
Her mother. Sitting at the edge of the bed.
For a second—one second—Kyra thought she was asleep.
But then—
Her head was tilted too far to the side. Her body was too still. And the air was wrong.
She stepped forward, the sound of her own heartbeat roaring in her ears.
She reached out. Fingertips brushed against cold skin.
Kyra yanked her hand back.
Her stomach twisted, her breath coming too fast, too sharp. This wasn't real. It wasn't—
Her hands shook as she reached forward again, turning her mother's wrist over. Blood. A deep, vertical cut. A pool spreading across the floor. No pulse.
And then she saw it.
A folded note on the nightstand.
Her hands moved on their own, reaching, grasping, unfolding it with numb fingers.
"Kyra,
I'm sorry.
I tried. I really did. But I can't do this anymore. Not without him. Not without the life we lost. And I don't have the strength to pretend otherwise.
Please don't hate me for this. Please don't blame yourself. You were the only thing keeping me here for as long as I lasted, and I need you to know that.
You were always enough.
I just wasn't."
The walls tilted. The floor lurched beneath her.
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Everything collapsed in on itself.
And then—
Everything went silent.
The sound of something hitting the floor jerked her back.
Kyra inhaled sharply, her body jerking violently back into the present. The knife had slipped from her fingers. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths, the edges of her vision still swimming.
She wasn't sixteen anymore.
She wasn't standing in that doorway.
She was here.
And she had somewhere to be.
With slow, deliberate movements, she wiped the blood from her finger, tossing the napkin aside. She finished cutting the apple. A little slower this time.
As she glanced toward the window, the muted autumn light revealed a scattering of fallen leaves outside and, pinned inconspicuously on the wall near the door, a small calendar marked "Mid-October"—a silent reminder that even as her life felt frozen, time and the long, dragging semester continued relentlessly.
She checked the clock. It was almost time to leave.
The arcade was waiting.
And so was everything else she wasn't ready to face.