"What the..." is a sentence dissipating into the midair. The syllable dangles akin to her open mouth. Hung like the lace that strung once to her hips before mislaying somewhere, now in her pinch.

Turns out, its whereabouts wasn't to be blamed on her apartment's clustered mess. Neither for her cracked phone. Benji's phone. Peach's, too. Previous copy of keys. And... teeth?

Her grasp on its case nearly stammers. Nearly.

You tucked these assets in the ceiling's crevices, like fucked-up treasures. Right there, perched overhead by the toilet's seat—a slot you sensed her oblivious sight steadily neglected.

What the actual, fucking fuck, indeed.

Uncle Jeff. Benji. Her aṣshole of a father. All whackos cut from the same red cloth, and now, you.

God, you were perfect—different! Why'd it have to be you?

Sweetly, uttered words—maybe a ruse? Tender caresses, soothing words, heavenly dates and nights skiving second thoughts—were those a ploy to, what, bed your fucking claws? Mess her further up, like the dimwit misters in her life hadn't accomplished enough?

Recalling now, she'd seen your eyes. Those enlarged pupils stray from lies—a bucket of shadows engulfing your irises' entirety. Romantic and lust, at first, but against this discovery? It's an obsessive degree.

"Beck?" Shit. Laying your three to some knocks grounds her in the present moment, and her heart brinks on crashing to her stomach's churning abyss.

Extremities, though, act first. Clumsily.

A step up on the toilet seat sends her hand scrambling, pushing the damn shoebox where it rightfully belongs. Hidden. Footing down tumbles her weight on the floor—damn being weak-kneed.

"You okay in there?" Christ, even a row of dense timber doesn't blind her crashing fall. "Yeah!" an inflection too high as she hoists her form somewhat erect, back ironed to the wall. "I'm fine, um, it's just—" just, just, just what?! "T-the shampoo fell. I'll be out in just a second."

Why couldn’t you just get lost on the way to the café?