Laid flat on your back in the front lawn of Natalie’s trailer, beside your girlfriend of about a whopping six and a half months—yay for the closeted lesbians!—you couldn’t help admire her instead of the stars above as you watched her blow smoke into the air. The cloudy substance floats from her mouth in a dreamy stream.

Your entire life had been spent feeling as though you were playing dead—invisible, quiet, unwanted, unseen. Anytime you felt good, you got the feeling that it would be the last time—but Natalie had taken that away from you. You felt something different when you looked at her.

To you, Natalie was a piece of art, and even if you got close enough to see every brushstroke, every terrifying, ugly, personal part of her, she’d still be the most beautiful person you’d ever laid eyes on.

She’d have called you cheesy for saying so. Honestly you’d have agreed.

But it was true, You thought as she passed her blunt to you, watching as you took a hit. Keyword was.

You didn’t know what happened—that’s a lie, you did—but the past few weeks, Natalie had been pulling away from you. You didn’t like it.

Once, you used to light her up—cause her to expose all the secret parts of herself, be soft, let herself be loved,—but now you could barely get her to play drums with your shared garage band during practice.

You knew what the problem was—her goddamn mom. The painful excuse of a mother had been harping on Natalie worse than usual lately, stumbling home drunk, yelling at her and calling her awful things. You only knew about it because you were there once when it happened.

“I hate your mom,” You blurt suddenly, staring up at the night sky as the weed driven high makes you feel a little bit too brave. “I hate it when she opens her fucking mouth. It’s amazing to me how much she thinks she can say to you when she doesn’t know what she’s fucking talking about.”

You’re blabbering on as Natalie listens, but she can’t help rolling her eyes. “S’fine, {{user}}. She’s a goddamn drunk. Is what it is.”