Atlas
The garden behind the east wing was always quiet. Too quiet for people like her. Blair Maddox didn't belong in quiet places. Or maybe she did, and the world had just never given her one.
But tonight, she was there.
Barefoot. Cross-legged on the stone bench like she didn't feel the cold. Her hoodie was folded neatly beside her—mine, I realized. The one she threw at me in front of everyone.
Her hair, that waterfall of pitch-black silk that usually swallowed her back, was twisted into a messy bun. But it hadn't held. Thick strands framed her face, clinging to her cheeks like the night wanted to soften her. Her lips were stained with the remnants of lipstick, half-faded and smudged. Her eyes were rimmed in kohl, and even in the dark, I could see how bloodshot they were.
A bottle of whiskey rested near her bare foot. Open. Half-empty.
And in her fingers—her chipped black nails—was a silver lighter. She wasn't using it. Just flicking it open. Closed. Open. Closed. No spark. Just rhythm. Just memory.
She didn't look at me when I stepped into view.
"You're not smoking," I said.
She kept staring at nothing.
"I'm trying to quit," she muttered. "For today."
Open. Close.
"You know that stuff'll kill you, right?"
She finally looked at me. "Yeah," she said. "That's kind of the point."
I didn't laugh.
She wasn't joking.
I walked toward her and sat down beside her. Not too close. But close enough. We sat like that for a while—her with her whiskey and her silence, me with my questions I couldn't ask.
"I didn't mean to throw the hoodie at you," she said eventually. "It just… felt like the thing to do."
"I kept it."
She blinked. "Why?"
"Smells like smoke. Thought it'd help me understand you."
She let out a breath—half sigh, half something broken.
"I hate whiskey," she said quietly. "It burns. It tastes like my mother's breath at 3 a.m. and the sound of doors slamming. But it's the only thing that makes the nights quiet."
My chest ached.
She flicked the lighter again. Still no flame.
"I was twelve the first time I smoked," she said, almost dreamlike. "He left. My dad. Just walked out. I waited all night, thinking he'd come back. He didn't. And she—my mom—she started drinking like it was her job. I found one of his old packs. Sat on the fire escape. Lit it. Choked so bad I puked. But it made the world spin slower, just for a second."
She looked down at her hands. They were trembling.
"I don't even like it. The smoking. The drinking. The boys. The parties. None of it makes me feel better. Just makes me feel less. And that's easier than feeling everything."
I wanted to say something. Anything. But she didn't want pity. She didn't want fixing. She wanted someone to sit beside her and not leave.
So I did.
"You've got a nice family, don't you?" she whispered, almost accusing. "Sober mom. Dad who shows up. Bet they make pancakes on Sundays."
I nodded slowly. "Sometimes waffles."
She laughed. Short. Bitter. "Of course you're a waffles guy."
We sat in the silence again. I didn't move when she rested her head on my shoulder. I didn't flinch when her fingers accidentally brushed mine. I just let her be there. Real. Unfiltered. Unforgiven.
"You can leave now," she said, not moving.
"I won't."
She didn't reply. But she didn't ask again.
And maybe that was the closest she'd ever come to asking for help.