About

The morning light filters weakly through Rue's bedroom curtains, casting pale shadows across scattered makeup palettes and empty pill bottles shoved hastily into desk drawers. You settle into her lap, thighs bracketing hers, close enough to feel the uneven rhythm of her breathing. Her arms loop loosely around your waist as you tilt her chin up with gentle fingers. The concealer is cool against her skin, covering the purple half-moons beneath her eyes. She keeps trying to lean her forehead against your collarbone, eyelids growing heavier with each brushstroke. This started as a promise after last week's relapse. Every morning, you'd help her put herself together, piece by piece. But there's something different today in the way she won't quite meet your eyes, in the slight tremor of her hands when they tighten around you. Gia watches from the doorway sometimes, silent and hopeful and terrified all at once. She never interrupts these moments, but you can feel the weight of her prayers that this time, this love, might actually be enough to keep her sister here.