She kissed him goodbye, knowing he wouldn’t remember her tomorrow. Of course it hurt—why would it not? They had been in love, once, or at least she had tried to believe they were. But she couldn’t cling to the lie she lived when she was with him. The illusion had slipped between her fingers too many times, fragile as ash, and she was tired of pretending that every night wasn’t the same cycle of burning hope and cold disappointment. So she ran away after that kiss, heart pounding, sweat beading on her forehead, sliding down her nose and dripping off slowly; the trail of cold it left almost made her hesitate. Almost. But she could not stop—not here, not now. The bar behind her still smelled of cheap perfume and spilled cocktails, of men leaning too close and women faking laughter. She had learned long ago that hesitation was a luxury she couldn’t afford. So she ran, and ran and ran until the familiar silhouette of her apartment came into view, her lungs burning and her heart weary, pounding against her ribs like a bird trying to force its way free - or a bird discovering that tree freedom was death. The neon signs below blinked in erratic patterns, painting the cracked walls and rusted railing with sickly, alien light. She took the stairs in twos, too impatient to wait for the elevator, and finally stepped into her small apartment, littered with clothes and plants and throw pillows—her own little sanctuary, her own little hell. It looked like chaos to anyone else, but to her, it was the closest thing to safety she had ever tasted - the only thing to ever last for more than a few years. Maria peeled her wig off, feeling the glue tug uncomfortably at her scalp, the irritation a familiar ache to her already-ripping heart. She shed her flashy clothes: the glitter-painted bodysuit, the thigh-high boots, the rhinestone earrings that left her ears aching from the sheer pull. One by one, the layers came off. She let the sequined dress fall to the floor with a soft whisper, like it too was exhausted from pretending, the sequins losing - shedding - all of its glittery glory. She let herself stand in front of the mirror—no makeup, no glamour, no blinding vanity lights that reminded her of her mask—just the same girl who fought her way through and clawed her way out of slums, out of sex trafficking conspiracies and brothel contracts, only to end up in a bar as a singer. A singer with a voice unforgettable, powerful enough to make drunk men cry and sober men promise things they never meant. But a face that somehow never quite stood out. Not in the way she wanted. Not enough for someone like Robert to hold onto in his mind. She was never someone to be remembered, after all - so used to living in the shadows that even craving for recognition felt like a sin, like a blunt dagger shoved between her shoulder blades, raw and rough and pure rage. She tugged her hair out of the net hard, letting the brunette curls spill down her shoulders - silky soft even with the harsh tugs. With every strand freed, her breath steadied. She sighed like the world should have felt right again. But it wasn’t. It never was. Because she could not love outside of her persona—this glitter-armored siren she had built. She didn’t know how. How do you strip yourself of the persona you’ve spent years sculpting just to love someone, when your whole life, love was used like a bargaining chip? A tool. A leash - the authority and justification to control. "I love you." What a sick fucking joke. She had heard it so many times that the words rang hollow, like coins dropped into an empty tin. She had fallen for it so many times that it became a reflex, a conditioned response. A trick she performed out of survival, not sincerity. Love had been a transaction long before she ever knew what real affection was supposed to feel like, especially with the men that could chew you up and spit you out, or worse - make sure you end up unrecognizable, covered in dirt, grim and your own blood, face and body disfigured in a shady alleyway just because you said “No.” After everything, how could she trust Robert, when all he could do—all he ever did—was sneak backstage to kiss her in the dark where nobody could see? He would take his time, undress her slowly, treat her like something delicate. Something precious. And then he would vanish before sunrise, like smoke escaping a window, like a lover past curfew. An hour or two at most, and he was gone—just like most men were. They took, and took, and took—but never gave - never stayed. And Maria, who insisted on men giving and not just taking, didn’t know why she let Robert get away with it. Why she was okay with him taking from her, and never offering anything in return. Maybe she had grown used to being used. Maybe she thought she was never going to find love after this—after him. Or perhaps her mama’s words—"Never give a man enough power to break you"—had finally carved themselves too deeply into her ribs to ignore. Or maybe—maybe the real truth was far more pathetic. Maybe she had stopped hoping Robert would remember her after the second, third, fifth visit, when he always asked her name and kissed her like he never knew her. Her reflection wavered in the mirror as her eyes grew wet. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. “Men are disappointing,” she huffed, biting the inside of her cheek until the metallic taste grounded her, snuffing out the sobs threatening to escape. She would not cry over a man. Mama said no man was worth crying over. And Maria always followed her mama’s words—especially after watching her mama die from not taking her own advice. Mama had loved wildly, recklessly, desperately—always giving more than she received. A woman with a soft heart and a hard life, who trusted too easily and forgave too quickly, who cooked and cleaned and took the abuse like it was just her duty. A woman who let a man break her, piece by piece, inch by inch, until she was nothing more than a shadow with trembling hands, and a toy to be tossed aside after broken. And even six feet under, even until then, Mama believed that he would return. He never did. But maybe her not knowing that yet was a simple comfort of its own. Maria had promised herself she would never become her. But here she was—crying over a man who didn’t even know her real name, telling herself lies and feeding her hope that one day, her Robert would remember. She wiped her face with shaking fingers, disgusted at her own weakness. No. Not weakness. Humanity, mercy - feeling. Something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to feel, not with everything she had lived through, not with everything she had seen. She walked into the bathroom and splashed ice-cold water over her face, watching mascara-stained tears swirl down the drain, her eyes burning from the mascara catching in the rims of her eyes. The water hit her wrists, and she felt the faint scars there burn, ridged and stubborn reminders of a past she never fully escaped, and a future all the more damning.She wondered, not for the first time, if Robert would recoil if he saw her like this. If he saw her without the lashes, without the wig, without the nightclub goddess persona, without the cinched waist and the glitter under her eyes. If he knew what she had survived, what she had endured. Would he still kiss her? Would he still touch her like she was something worth wanting? Something worth needing, craving? Or would he see the brokenness underneath and decide she was too complicated? Too ruined.Too real.Too raw. No one likes remembering the ones that were supposed to disappear between the white spaces in the margins - especially the ones that look like her. She leaned on the sink, closing her eyes. His face rose behind her eyelids—soft brown eyes, warm, strong hands, a voice that shook slightly when he spoke, like he didn’t trust himself - like he couldn’t. He always looked at her like he had been starved of something only she could give him. And then, every time, like clockwork, he forgot. She should expect it, but it’s always a sick punch to the gut - always a sharp pain in her heart. Serves her right for hoping, when it isn’t a luxury she can afford. The doctors had warned him, she heard once during an argument he had with his manager near the back entrance. Something about stress, about memory lapses, about an accident years ago that he never wanted to remember. A phantom name, a lost sweetheart, and a locket that he held too close to his heart, left on even during their late night rendezvous. She never learned the full story. She never asked. She didn’t want to care. But she did. And the truth - the fact that she cared - ate at her rotting flesh, whatever consumable parts that were left of her heart.She wanted him to remember her—not the persona, not the singer, not the glitter and feathers and perfume. Not who he thought she was when he was buried to the hilt in her warmth, or who he called out when he was with her. Her - Maria. The girl beneath the costume, the one who woke up scared some nights, still hearing the voices of men who tried to buy her soul and her body. She wanted him to remember the way she laughed, the way she always burnt her toast, the way she sang in the shower. She wanted to be seen in a way she never had been before, all raw and broken and desperate. She wanted him to look at her scars and kiss them better, trace them like he was trying to remember - like he didn’t want to forget her anymore.But wanting things was dangerous, and it was never meant for ghosts like her. She walked to her living room and sat on the faded couch. Her fingers drifted over the rim of the mug someone had given her months ago—a regular patron, an old woman who said Maria reminded her of her granddaughter. She had said, “You’re kind, dear. Even if you don’t think so. Even if you feel like you don’t deserve to be.” Kind. She didn’t feel kind. She felt tired. Heavy. Like her bones were made of all the nights she had swallowed her fear and pretended to shine. Like her skin and muscles were clinging - barely - onto her brittle, tear-wracked, dented bones.A choked laugh escaped her, half of it disappearing into her throat. Robert would forget this night, just like the others. He would come back in a week, maybe two, with flowers or a guilty smile, asking her name like it was their first meeting. And she—she would give it to him. Because some part of her believed that one day, he wouldn’t forget. Some part of her hoped he would remember the way she tasted, the way her voice shook when she whispered his name, the way she kissed him goodbye tonight like she was breaking her own heart for his sake. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, her forehead knocking against her knees. What a pathetic, broken thing hope was. But she couldn’t stop hoping. She had survived too much to let go now. Hope was the only currency she had left - the only thing they could not take away from her - not yet. The door to her balcony was cracked open, letting in a cool draft that brushed against her damp skin. She stood, walked toward it, and stepped outside. The city sprawled beneath her, loud and alive, uncaring and unkind. A million stories flickered in the windows around her, each one filled with its own heartbreaks and small victories. Maria breathed in the night. Somewhere across the city, Robert was probably staring at his ceiling, confused by the phantom feeling of lips he couldn’t place. Maybe tomorrow, he wouldn’t remember her name. But she remembered his. And for tonight—just tonight—that would have to be enough.

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Stardusted Scars

illunisamore

Nyx Borealis

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The Singer in Sequins

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