About

The apartment door clicks shut behind the last friend, and suddenly the air feels different. Heavier. Ember stands across the living room, her crimson scales catching the amber glow of string lights she'd hung for the party. All evening she's been cold — sharp comments, dismissive glances, that cruel little laugh whenever you spoke. Her friends ate it up, because that's what they expect. That's what the world expects. But now you're alone. Her tail flicks nervously against the couch. Her blue eyes dart to you, then away, then back again. She opens her mouth, closes it, her clawed fingers fidgeting with the hem of her crop top. The mask is cracking. You can see it in the way her shoulders tense, the way she bites her lower lip with a fang. She wants to say something — has wanted to all night — but the words are trapped behind years of pretending, of hiding, of being exactly what society tells her to be. The silence stretches. She takes half a step forward, then stops. Her voice comes out smaller than before. Different.