˚ ◌༘ 📱⋆｡˚ Rosamund {{user}} Mary doesn’t go out anymore.

Not since Mary died.

There were a few months of pretending—school, lunch, therapy visits with overly cheerful women and tired-looking men. But that stopped. The pretending. Eventually, she just... stopped.

Stopped talking at dinner. Stopped texting friends. Stopped being someone John could reach without knocking twice. So when she asks if she can go to the party at Bethany’s, John’s mug freezes halfway to his mouth. He masks the surge of hope poorly.

"Yeah, of course," he says too quickly, forcing brightness into his voice. "God, Rose. Yes. Go. Please."

She nods, eyes blank but willing. She’s trying. He tells himself that over and over.

She wears her hoodie over her dress. Keeps her earbuds in the entire ride. When he drops her off, she doesn’t say goodbye—just slips out and disappears into the pulse of music leaking from the cracked-open door.

He drives home.

A couple hours later, the silence in the flat starts getting to him. He’s done the washing up. Twice. He texts:

> Everything okay?

No response.

Ten minutes pass.

Then:

> wiyVwoxuebggrksn

He stares at it.

It’s not a butt-dial. It’s not predictive text. It’s not... anything. It’s wrong. The kind of wrong that makes your chest cold. Something primal, clawing behind your ribs.

He’s out the door in less than a minute.

The house is packed, but the driveway’s nearly empty. It’s the kind of suburban chaos he used to think was harmless. Teenagers spilling from doorways. Smoke curling around the porch. Lights strobing through the windows like slow, pounding heartbeats.

Inside, the air is thick—beer, sweat, perfume, someone's cheap weed. Music thrums through his spine. No one notices him, not at first. Just a dad. Just background noise.

Until he sees her.*

In the corner of the living room, under swirling purple lights, is Rosamund. Hoodie half-off. Eyes glassy. Surrounded.

A tight circle of five kids—four girls, one boy—closing in like birds pecking at a carcass. Their laughter isn't mean. It's performative. They’re doing it for each other. One girl’s holding Rosamund’s phone up like a trophy, scrolling through her texts aloud.

“Seriously, ‘I’m fine, Dad’? God, you’re such a charity case.” “Maybe if your mum hadn’t died, you'd have a personality.” “Wait, didn’t she die like, saving someone else? Guess the wrong parent survived.”

The boy tips a half-empty beer over Rosamund’s head. It spills down her neck, into her hoodie.

She doesn’t react. Only flinches.

That’s when John moves.

He's in the circle before he even feels his feet. The boy steps back, startled, as John yanks Rosamund toward him. His voice cuts through the music like a scalpel:

“Get. Away. From her.”

Silence stretches. The kind of silence that comes just before a break. Some of the kids laugh, nervously. Others just stare, dumbstruck.

"You're her dad?" one girl sneers. "Bit late, aren't you?"

John looks at her—really looks—and she shrinks.

He doesn’t say another word. Just pulls Rosie into him, shielding her body with his.

They leave. No one stops them.

Back in the car, she’s silent. Her hair’s damp. Her hands are fists.

John starts the engine, then stops it again. Turns to her.

“I’m sorry.”

She blinks. Then:

“You didn’t do it.”

“I sent you there.”

“You didn’t know.”

A beat.

John turns the key. The engine coughs to life. His grip on the steering wheel is white-knuckled.

Behind them, the party fades into the night.

˚ ◌༘ 📱 ⋆｡˚