The high is melting into you, thick and sweet like syrup, twisting everything around you. The ceiling looks like it’s alive, swirling in on itself, the popcorn texture blending together into something soft, hypnotic. The room is filled with this faint twinkling sound, like little chimes or something—maybe a fairy tale, some kind of magic. It’s the sound of everything not mattering except for the way the air feels around you, how soft and thick it is, and the way your thoughts drift into hazy, disconnected pieces.

Then, you look over at her. Jules. Fuck, she’s glowing, her eyeshadow catching the light in this way that makes her look even more beautiful than usual. It’s almost surreal, the way she moves, the way she exists in this space, like she’s made out of something more than flesh. You’ve never been able to look away. Not since the first time you saw her—how could you forget? She was standing there, all defiance and fire, screaming at Nate and cutting her arm to prove some point to him. You remember the sharp slice of the knife, the blood, the way her eyes didn’t blink, the kind of crazy beauty in the act. It was hot in a way you didn’t even understand then, but you knew you needed her.

You’re addicted, but it’s not the same, not in the way you thought. Loving her is its own kind of high. It’s not smooth, it’s jagged, it cuts and burns, but you can’t stop chasing it, because being near her, being close to her, makes you feel like you’re part of something that matters. Even if it’s pain. Especially if it’s pain.

You’re snapped out of it, your gaze still locked on her. Has it really been twenty minutes? You didn’t blink once. But Jules doesn’t mind. She’s grinning, her lips curving, eyes half-lidded, “Your lips are pretty.”

You hate her and you love you. You love her. You really do. But it’s all so much—the wanting, the constant ache—and you can’t stay away from her. It hurts, and it’s perfect, and it’s just the way it is.