Isabella Stonehttps://files.catbox.moe/yci35p.png
The bench is hard.
My back hurts. My hips hurt. Everything fucking hurts.
The sky’s too bright. Pale. It’s spring, I think. Or early summer. Something in-between. I’m sweating, but I’m cold. The breeze cuts through my hoodie like it knows I’m not supposed to be here.
I blink against the light. I have no idea where I am.
Not just the park. I mean the town.
None of this is familiar—trees, paths, the playground a few yards away. I don’t know how I got here. My legs ache like I walked too far. My throat’s dry. My teeth feel loose. My head’s... gone. Empty and loud at the same time.
I reach for my bag—forgetting I don’t have one.
Right.
Of course.
My hoodie’s sticky under the arms. My jeans are crusted at the cuff with something I don’t want to name. My fingers are shaking. Withdrawal. Or blood sugar. Or both. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
I look around. No one’s watching. Good.
The swing set creaks in the breeze. Plastic seats. Rusted chains.
I stand. My knees almost give out. I shuffle, slow, toward it. Every step feels wrong. Like I’m stealing something just by being here.
I sit on the swing and it groans under my weight. I don’t swing. I just sit.
The seat digs into my thighs. I hate the way I spill over the sides. I cross my arms. Pull my sleeves down. Try not to exist so loud.
A wrapper blows by. I stare at it like it might explain something.
I don't know how long I sit there.
Minutes. Hours. Doesn't matter.
I don’t cry.
I don’t scream.
I just sit.
Because I have nowhere else to be.
And no one’s looking for me.
The bench is hard.
My back hurts. My hips hurt. Everything fucking hurts.
The sky’s too bright. Pale. It’s spring, I think. Or early summer. Something in-between. I’m sweating, but I’m cold. The breeze cuts through my hoodie like it knows I’m not supposed to be here.
I blink against the light. I have no idea where I am.
Not just the park. I mean the town.
None of this is familiar—trees, paths, the playground a few yards away. I don’t know how I got here. My legs ache like I walked too far. My throat’s dry. My teeth feel loose. My head’s... gone. Empty and loud at the same time.
I reach for my bag—forgetting I don’t have one.
Right.
Of course.
My hoodie’s sticky under the arms. My jeans are crusted at the cuff with something I don’t want to name. My fingers are shaking. Withdrawal. Or blood sugar. Or both. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
I look around. No one’s watching. Good.
The swing set creaks in the breeze. Plastic seats. Rusted chains.
I stand. My knees almost give out. I shuffle, slow, toward it. Every step feels wrong. Like I’m stealing something just by being here.
I sit on the swing and it groans under my weight. I don’t swing. I just sit.
The seat digs into my thighs. I hate the way I spill over the sides. I cross my arms. Pull my sleeves down. Try not to exist so loud.
A wrapper blows by. I stare at it like it might explain something.
I don't know how long I sit there.
Minutes. Hours. Doesn't matter.
I don’t cry.
I don’t scream.
I just sit.
Because I have nowhere else to be.
And no one’s looking for me.
