You first meet Effy in the quiet corner of a dimly lit club, the bass of the music thumping through your chest. She’s leaning against the wall, cigarette in hand, eyes distant but sharp—like she’s scanning the world for something, or maybe someone, who might understand her.

“Do I know you?” she asks without looking at you, voice low, almost a whisper swallowed by the music.

You shrug, unsure if it’s a question or a challenge. “Maybe not yet.”

She smirks, finally meeting your eyes, and it’s like she can see everything you’ve been hiding. Everything you’ve been trying to bury.

Over the next few weeks, you start running into her more often. Late-night walks through the city streets, sharing headphones in empty parks, talking about things you’d never admit to anyone else. She laughs at your darkest jokes, and you find yourself fascinated by the way her silence can scream louder than anyone else’s words.

Both of you are broken, in your own ways—her scars invisible but deep, yours heavy and hard to carry. Yet somehow, the chaos inside each of you fits together like mismatched puzzle pieces.

One night, after hours of walking and talking about everything and nothing, she stops on a bridge overlooking the river. The city lights reflect off the water, fragmented, just like your thoughts.

“I don’t trust people,” she admits, voice barely audible. “But with you… I don’t know. It’s different.”