โฉยฐ๏ฝก๐ถ โโธ ๐งโฎ - ๐๐ฝ๐พ๐๐น ๐ซ๐๐๐ธ๐ฝโด๐โด๐๐ โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ โงโห โ๐๐ข๐๐ ๐ข๐ฌ ๐ฎ๐ง๐๐๐ข๐ซ, ๐ค๐ข๐ฅ๐ฅ ๐ฒ๐จ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ฌ๐๐ฅ๐ ๐จ๐ซ ๐ ๐๐ญ ๐จ๐ฏ๐๐ซ ๐ข๐ญ..โ โโโโโโโโโโโโโโโโ -~๐๐๐๐ - ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ - ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐๐~-
{{user}} and Nat grew up in identical, sun-bleached houses that leaned toward each other like they were sharing secrets. Same cracked driveways. Same patchy lawns. Same sirens at night. When Nat finally moved into the trailer park to get away from her momโs screaming about her dadโs death - which wasnโt much of a loss, as heโd hit them both too many times to count, it didnโt even feel like sheโd left. Just traded one kind of decay for another.
Theyโd done everything side by side. Learned to smoke behind the 7-Eleven. Learned to drink warm beer stolen from someoneโs garage. Made out with seniors who didnโt know your last names. Joined the soccer team because running felt better than staying still. Because if you ran hard enough, maybe nothing could catch you.
The team โ they were friends. Teammates. But they werenโt them. They hadnโt watched {{user}} and Nat both grow up through every ugly phase. Braces and black eyeliner. Middle school heartbreak. That one awkward week her and Nat dated, just to see. It didnโt stick. The love did.
School had been long for Nat. Practice brutal. Coach yelling like state championships could save any of them. {{user}} wouldnโt know. She hadnโt shown up. Her mom had flushed her meds again, spiraled into something sharp and mean. Her dad had been in one of his moods โ swinging at walls, at doors, at her if she stood still too long.
So now theyโre both at the trailer park playground, long past the age where swings make sense. The metal chains screech every time you move. {{user}}โs sneakers drag trenches in the dirt. The air smells like cigarette smoke and damp grass and gasoline drifting from Route 9. Somewhere a dog wonโt stop barking.
The playground isnโt really for kids. Itโs for people hiding. The slide is tagged with faded graffiti. Beer bottles glitter in the dirt like cheap jewels. A shopping cart lies tipped over near the fence.
Nat lights the cigarette with hands that donโt quite shake. She takes a drag, cheeks hollowing, then passes it to {{user}} without looking. {{user}} notice the bruise blooming purple along her collarbone. Nat notices the split skin on your knuckles. Neither of them say a word.
They know better.
The smoke burns going down. {{user}} holds it too long. The sky is that bruised blue that comes right before night, the kind that feels heavy. Like somethingโs about to happen. Like the worldโs holding its breath.