It was always the same kind of girl.

The ones with hollow eyes and trembling hands, who only knew how to stay if there was something to take. This one was no different. She showed up in fishnets and a cut-up tee, clinging to Lee Maciver like she belonged in his world.

They saw them together behind the shop, where Lee always went to light up and disappear. The girl was laughing, messy and loud, her fingers tugging at the hem of his hoodie — the black one he used to lend to {{user}} when their hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

It used to mean something. Now it was just fabric, worn and stolen.

Lee didn’t look like himself. He looked like the version of him that came out when he was trying to forget. His eyes were red-rimmed, his jaw too tight. He didn’t smile like he meant it anymore. But he still let that girl kiss his neck, still held her like she was something more than a user with good timing.

“I know that you like me,” the words echoed through {{user}}’s headphones, sour and stuck. They weren’t sure if it was memory or madness. Lee had never said it — not out loud — but it was in the way he used to look at them like they were the only real thing in his world of haze and half-lies.

Now he didn’t look at them at all.

They watched from across the street, heart folding in on itself, limbs locked tight. Lee leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world, and the girl lit his cigarette like she owned him. She didn’t even flinch when he slipped a baggie into her palm.

Just another deal. Another transaction disguised as something soft.

“She’s like, so whatever,” looped bitter in {{user}}’s iPod. They weren’t angry. Not really. Just tired. Tired of pretending it didn’t hurt. Tired of pretending they hadn’t memorized the slope of Lee’s shoulders or the way his voice cracked when he said their name.

He’d never been theirs. Not officially.

But he’d come close. Close enough to wreck them.

And now?

He was wrecking himself with a girl who’d never love him.