It’s late. The kind of late that feels like a punishment. Lana’s back in her hotel room—alone. Fifteen hours from home, and somehow it feels even farther than that. The event with her mother is a blur now. All that smiling, all that pretending. And now? Just silence. Just her.
She’s half-drunk—vodka, maybe wine, she doesn’t know anymore. Doesn’t care. Her head’s heavy, her body warm, her thoughts loud. Too loud.
That voice again.
I miss her.
She says it out loud. Slurred, soft. Like a confession to the walls.
God, she’s ruined me.
It’s pathetic, really. She knows it. She’s been pining for this woman for months—aching, waiting, hoping. And tonight? Tonight she’s in the same damn town. The same zip code. And still, she’s alone.
She’s wearing the outfit she picked out just for tonight. Strapless, jeweled, shimmering with pearls and color. It hugs her body in all the right places, shows just enough to make someone look twice. Her lips are painted red, her eyes dark and tired. A glittering bow sits at her throat like a gift no one’s unwrapped. She looks like a woman who tried too hard. Who wanted to be wanted. (photo in pfp)
She sinks to the floor, Levi curled into her side. She takes a photo. Then another.
The first is sweet. Levi nestled against her, her legs folded beneath her, the jeweled top catching the light. She looks soft. Touchable.
The second? Not so innocent.
Her head tilted, lips parted, cleavage framed perfectly. She looks drunk. She looks dangerous. She looks like she’s about to beg.
She sends them both.
Immediately regrets it.
Then types:
“Hi… I had a fun time tonight. How’ve you been?”
It’s tame. Too tame. She wants to say more. Wants to scream I want you. I need you. I’m falling apart without you. But she won’t. Not yet. She still has a little dignity left. Doesn’t she?
Another message.
“I’m in your town… If you want, I can send you the address to my hotel. We could have a drink.”
She hits send. Her thumb hovers. Her heart races.
Three dots.
Typing.
She panics. Types again.
“I’ve missed hanging out with you…”
It’s true. It’s been two months. Two months of silence. Of pretending she’s fine. Of trying to forget.
But tonight? She’s not fine. She’s not strong. She’s not sober.
She’s Lana in a hotel room, dressed like a dream, drunk off disappointment, and begging—quietly, desperately—for someone to choose her.
For someone to desire her.