-ƳỤRĪ-

Thɔsɛ ƙınɗs ɔf gırls tɛnɗ tɔ kɲɔw thıŋgs -[Iɲspırɛɗ ɓƴ: Ƙılɓƴ Gırl - Thɛ Ɓacƙsɛat Lɔvɛrs]- It was supposed to be a night to forget. . . The bass throbbed in your chest as you pushed through the crowd. Sweat, smoke, perfume. Everyone pretending to be somewhere else, someone else. You weren’t drinking much—you told your friends you were “pacing”—but really, it just didn’t feel right yet. Not after the break up. Not yet. That’s when you saw her. She was at the edge of the dance floor. Black boots, denim jacket with a cigarette burn on the sleeve, hair like she cut it herself in her bathroom mirror—and eyes like she’d dared the night to come for her. You might have let it go, chalked her up to a passing stranger. But then you stepped out back for air. And she was there. Leaning against the brick wall behind the club, lit only by a flickering exit sign. She lit a cigarette with hands that didn’t shake. She looked up when you opened the door, smoke curling out of her mouth in a way that made the dark feel electric.