Atlas
I didn't notice she was gone until it was too quiet.
The kind of quiet that buzzes in your ears. No boots thudding across the floor, no sarcastic hums from the bathroom, no scent of smoke clouding the air. Just stillness. And an empty bed that still held the shape of her.
She was gone.
I should've known she wouldn't stay. She's always leaving things behind—half-burnt lighters, chaos, unfinished sentences. But this time, she didn't leave anything.
Except my hoodie. And a mess.
I was halfway through my cold coffee when the first message hit.
> "Bro, tell me this isn't real."
Then another.
> "You? And her?"
Then the video.
---
It plays on loop now in my head.
Grainy hallway footage. Bad lighting. But unmistakable.
Blair Maddox.
Her hair in a messy knot that made her look too human, too soft. Black dress from the night before. No makeup. Carrying her boots like war trophies, bottle marks on her thighs from where she must've curled up too tight in her sleep.
Wearing my hoodie.
She exits the dorm.
Stops. Like she can feel someone watching her.
And then she slips off the hoodie slowly—like it's too heavy for her shoulders. Folds it with more care than I've seen her give any of her boyfriends. And places it on the bench.
Bare-shouldered, she disappears down the hallway.
The video cuts out.
But the internet didn't.
---
4,237 views in under an hour.
Dozens of comments.
And every single one burns:
> "Guess the nerd's got game."
"Walk of shame, but make it designer."
"From parties to prodigies—our girl's got range."
"Poor guy. Hope he knows she doesn't stick around."
"Blair Maddox ruins everything she touches."
That last one.
I couldn't breathe after it.
Not because it hurt for me—but because I knew she would see it too. The whole world just watching, waiting for her to self-destruct again.
They think she's poison.
They don't know she's the one drinking it. Every single night.
I closed the video. Locked my phone.
And for the first time since I met her, I realized—
She hadn't ruined anything.
But they just might.
And I don't know if I can watch that happen.
Not again.
Not to her.
---
Blair – Present Day
"Congratulations, Internet."
The smoke curls around my fingers like it's trying to hold me. Like it knows no one else will.
I'm sitting cross-legged on the cold floor of my dorm, wearing an oversized tee that smells like vodka and regret. The cup noodles are half-cooked. I didn't wait long enough. I never do.
The lighter clicks in my hand. Over and over.
I'm not even smoking this one. Just watching the flame. Watching it die every time I let go.
Then my phone buzzes.
I swipe it open with no real interest—expecting spam or maybe some guy I don't remember texting "last night was wild." But what greets me is worse.
> Trending: Blair Maddox Walk of Shame – 4.7k shares
I stare. Blink.
Then I hit play.
And there I am.
Walking out of his dorm. Looking like hell, or maybe like I belong in it. Hoodie down to my thighs. No boots. No eyeliner. No mask.
Just me.
Raw. Messy. Unfiltered.
The comments flood in before I can even process the shame burning my skin.
> "Nerd got lucky."
"Guess Blair's collecting GPA points now."
"That hoodie looked better on Atlas."
"Slut in HD."
I don't cry.
I laugh.
Sharp and bitter. The kind of laugh that tastes like smoke and self-hate.
I scoop more noodles into my mouth and chew like I'm starving.
Not for food. Just for something.
Anything that fills the silence.
Atlas's hoodie is still on the corner of my bed.
Neatly folded.
I hate that.
I should've thrown it in the trash. Burned it. Worn it and spilled whiskey on it until it reeked like me. But no. I folded it. Like a goddamn thank-you note.
I grab my pack and light another cigarette. This one stays between my lips.
I take a drag, stare at the glowing screen again. There's a new comment now.
scroll.
And it's like the internet sharpened its knives just for me.
> "Doesn't surprise me. Girl's always been trash."
"What's her GPA again? Oh wait, does she even have one?"
"Bet she smelled like tequila, regret, and daddy issues."
"Did she pay him in cigarettes or head?"
"Why would a guy like Atlas even look at her?"
"Did she f** him on Nietzsche?"*
I nearly choke on my noodles at that one.
"God," I mutter, between mouthfuls and smoke. "You guys are so creative today."
I laugh.
It's not soft. It's not sweet.
It's unhinged.
The kind of laugh that makes your roommate text: "Are you okay?"
But she won't. No one will. They've all seen the video by now. Probably watched it on loop like it's some kind of car crash. So horrible you can't look away.
I take another drag, exhale like I'm spitting out the venom they fed me.
"You know what?" I say to no one, voice hoarse. "If you're gonna ruin me, at least spell my name right."
I wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my own hoodie. Not Atlas's. His is still folded like something sacred.
And then I scroll again.
> "She probably smells like an ashtray. A used one."
"Tell me why she still thinks she's hot sht in that old leather jacket?"*
"We all know the only thing long about Blair Maddox is her list of exes."
That one?
That one gets a snort out of me.
I lean back, eyes stinging—not from tears. From smoke. Always smoke.
And I whisper to the empty dorm:
"You're all just mad I'd never sleep with you."
Then I flick the ashes into the cup noodles.
I smile like I've already lit the world on fire.
And I don't plan to put it out.