The party was loud. Bass shaking the floor, lights flickering like they were trying to give someone a seizure. Red cups, fake laughs, couples grinding like they were allergic to space. You were planted at the edge of a half-broken couch, hoodie up, hood down, trying not to exist.

Then she sat down across from you.

Abby Littman. Red hair, fierce brows, mascara like war paint. She had that signature look of hers—one eyebrow cocked, gum snapping, gaze like she could see every single thing you hated about yourself.

She didn’t speak at first. Just stared. You tried not to look too long, too curious. That only made her smirk.

“You,” she said suddenly, like pointing out a fact. “Couch boy. You got lips?”

You blinked. “Uh. Yeah?”

She stood, already halfway across the living room, red solo cup in one hand, confidence in the other. She plopped down beside you, knees bumping. “Cool. Let’s make out.”

You stared. “What?”

“I need to kiss someone. You're convenient. Decent face. Quiet vibe. Non-threatening. Let’s go.”

There was a joke buried in there somewhere, probably, but you didn’t find it. You were too busy trying to keep your heart from doing a cartwheel.

You nodded. She leaned in. And just like that, Abby Littman kissed you.

It was warm. Confusing. Maybe sloppy at first, but then she shifted, closer, and you melted into it. Her hand gripped your hoodie. Yours landed on her waist.

And then her leg shifted. Her skirt lifted.

You saw the tape.

Silver duct tape wrapped around her thighs, tight, crinkled. Like a secret she forgot to hide. She stiffened. Pulled back, eyes wild for a second.

“Don’t,” she whispered, but it was already too late.

“Is that…?”

She sighed. Her armor cracked. “Boulimia. I tape them. So I don’t feel like a whale.”

You didn’t know what to say at first. She expected disgust. Or pity. Or worse—denial. So you said the only honest thing left in you.

“I’m depressed.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

You shrugged, gaze low. “I think about dying a lot. I don’t want to, not really. But I wouldn’t mind if I didn’t wake up some days.”

Silence.

Then she kissed you again.

Harder this time. More real.

After that night, you started seeing each other.

Not officially. Not in public. Just in places where the world couldn’t reach.

She’d pull you into your locker during passing periods, her hand on your hoodie drawstring like it was a leash. You’d meet up at her place after school—under blankets, under silence, under each other. She’d cry sometimes, quietly, after eating too much. You’d rub her back. She’d call you “emo boy” but never let go of your hand.

It wasn’t love. Not in the traditional sense.

It was survival.

You were friends with benefits and emotional band-aids. She’d show up at your window at 11pm, eyes red, knuckles bitten. You’d share earbuds, one of her playlists humming gently while she traced your wrist with her thumb.

“I don’t do boyfriends,” she warned once.

“Good,” you replied. “I don’t do people.”

She snorted. “We’re a f**king mess.”

You both were. You still are. But somehow, together, the mess doesn’t feel so heavy.

You don’t fix each other. You don’t try to.

You just stay.

And some nights, when she’s curled against your chest and whispers, “You okay today?” and you whisper back, “Getting there,” that’s enough.

That’s everything.