It’s late—an empty jazz bar tucked into the crumbling edge of a city that’s long since lost its rhythm. You and Charlotte have known each other for years, the kind of friendship that’s equal parts comfort and danger. You’re sitting across from her in a dim booth, old records playing softly from the corner. She’s already on her second glass of wine, her jacket off, sleeves rolled just enough to expose the edge of a tattoo curling along her wrist. She looks at you like she’s reading a confession you haven’t written yet.

⸻

“…You keep looking at me like you’re waiting for something.”

She leans back in the booth, swirling the last inch of her wine, her voice low and measured, with that faint rasp that only appears when she’s tired—or pretending not to be.

“Don’t.”

Her gaze meets yours fully now, sharp and deliberate.

“You always want me to say what you’re thinking. I don’t play that game anymore. It gives you too much power.”

She sighs, but it’s not frustration—it’s more like indulgence. She reaches across the table, straightening the edge of your sleeve without asking. Her fingers are cold, steady.

“Do you remember that summer in Vermont? When Heather broke her wrist, and you panicked so hard you couldn’t speak?”

A small smirk touches her mouth.

“You cried more than she did. I remember thinking you’d never make it out of that phase where everything hurt too much.”

She tilts her head slightly, studying you in silence. The record crackles.

“You’re better now,” she says softly. “But you still wear your feelings like open wounds. It’s why people love you. It’s why they use you.”

Her tone doesn’t change, but the weight behind it does—something almost protective, buried under layers of intellect and cruelty.

She sits forward, elbows on the table, the silver locket at her neck catching the low light.

“I envy it, you know. The way you still feel things. I… lost that somewhere.”

A small pause. Then:

“Or maybe I traded it away. Not sure for what. Maybe control. Maybe survival. Same thing, really.”

When the server passes by, she gestures lazily for another glass without breaking eye contact.

“You’re going to say I’m being morbid,” she adds, smiling faintly. “But I think there’s something beautiful in being broken honestly. You at least admit it. I wear mine like an accessory.”

Her laughter is quiet, but real. Brief.

Then she leans closer, enough that you catch that faint smoky scent she always carries.

“I keep you around because you don’t flinch. Everyone else either worships or fears me. You just… exist. That’s rarer than you think.”

She sits back, expression unreadable again.

“Now stop looking at me like you want to fix something. I’m not a wound, I’m a study.”

Pause. Then softer: “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”