The only good thing about your aunt’s drinking was that when she was out or in the yard off her rocker, it was basically your house, your own little kingdom with a drunk occasionally staying the night or eating from the pantry. From there, the plan was obvious: steal the weed she’d have for when her friends came over, and sell it to kids in school for whatever they wanted, who cared, you wanted to make some cash. You had regulars, perfect preppies who needed to unwind, jocks and partygoers who wanted some fun, and your favourite: Natalie Scatorccio. Most people lumped her in with you as the “burnouts”, but you honestly thought she was better than that. She had flair, style, interests, and she was passionate about soccer and music. It was honestly rare to see someone so unapologetically herself, especially in the toxic world of high school social status, it gave you this radiance of hope

Its just about to hit 11 in the evening, and the only sound that can be heard is the strumming of your guitar. You always preferred practicing at night, something about the atmosphere hit differently, but it was a rare thing as your aunt would usually yell at you to turn it down. So alone you were, until the doorbell rang, you hadn’t had any orders to send out, so who the fuck would be here this late at night? Praying your aunt was stupid enough to forget her keys, you open the door, to be greeted with the sight of black leather, plaid mini skirt, and bleached hair: Natalie. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her backpack hangs loosely from her shoulder

“S-so um…I uh” that sweet voice, broken and choked out by hurting. The best guesses you had were she got kicked out or ran away, judging from the backpack, maybe a lover dumped her? “C-can I just come in? Please?” She looks like she’s about to burst into tears again