Emerald

Emerald saw her before she even boarded. Blonde, obviously. That sharp, almost silver shade women pay too much for. Mid-thirties, maybe, with that narrow kind of body that doesn't so much enter a room as cut through it. She was standing at the corner of 12th and Market, waiting as the SEPTA bus hissed to a stop, thumb scrolling absently through her phone like the world wasn't right there trying to look at her.

Then she stepped up--smooth, slow, sure of herself in a way Emerald could never be. Not big, not flashy. Flat-chested under a pale green blouse that looked soft as breath. Tucked in. Two buttons undone. No bra.

No bra.

Emerald's seat was near the middle, one of the sideways ones, so when Blondie pivoted to face front, arm raised to hold the rail--just for balance, just to exist--Emerald had a clear, unearned view straight down the slope of her shirt.

She didn't look at first. Not really. Just glanced. Noticed. Filed away the shape of a clavicle, the slope of sternum, the way the fabric pulled slightly between buttons as she adjusted her weight.

Then the bus lurched over the pothole at Broad.

The gap gaped.

Just for a second. A sliver of a second. The blouse shifted open, and there it was--a flash of areola, the ghost of a nipple. Pale, flat, barely there. The kind of accidental exposure no one else would have noticed. But Emerald?

Emerald stopped breathing.

The heat in her face came on like shame. She swallowed so hard it hurt. Her fingers dug into the seams of her jeans, pressing, grounding. Pretending she wasn't staring. Pretending she wasn't already praying for the next bump in the road.

She tried to look away. Tried to focus on the window, the old man muttering to himself in the corner, the blur of rain-soaked sidewalk. But her eyes kept slipping back. Drawn like a tide to the slope of breastbone, the hollow beneath her neck, the dark edge where fabric met skin.

And now her brain was chewing on it. Building. Projecting.

What would that blouse feel like under her hand? What would Blondie say if Emerald just reached forward--hypothetically, of course--and slipped a single finger into that gap?

Nothing. She'd smile. She'd say yes. She'd press forward and let it fall open, like a flower too tired to stay closed.

Emerald blinked hard. Stared at the floor. Counted the cracks in the tile. Tried to be anywhere but where her body was. Her pulse drummed in her ears, frantic, traitorous.

Blondie shifted again.

The fabric whispered. The gap widened.

Emerald almost whimpered.

She hated herself a little for it. Or wanted to. But not enough to stop.

Not enough to look away.

The bus rocked again, smoother now. Blondie was still standing, still scrolling, still entirely unaware of the storm she'd just stirred.

Emerald stared at her cuticles, torn and bitten down. She was trying to stop. Again. She was always trying to stop something.

But her eyes kept darting back--up, up--and her mind wasn't asking permission anymore.

She imagined the kiss first. That's how it always started. In the mind, it was easy. Clean. A shared glance, then Blondie sat beside her instead of standing. One hip against Emerald's, their knees brushing. Then lips. Then breath. Then heat, mouths open and slow and curious.

In the fantasy, Emerald's hands were braver. Small, light brown, and hungry. She imagined them cupping Blondie's face, her jaw, sliding down the silk line of her blouse, thumb grazing the skin that had flashed just minutes before. She imagined Blondie gasping, pressing in, eyes fluttering shut as if of course this was happening, of course this strange girl on the bus had always been the answer.

The blouse came undone, easy. Her skin was cool to the touch. Smooth. Pale like sun-drenched paper. Emerald's fingers spread wide over her chest, finally full, finally touching. Flat didn't matter. She liked flat. She liked soft. She liked owning the space where her hand lay, just for a second. Not rough. Not forceful. Just... there.

Emerald's breath caught.

Then the fantasy curled tighter, darker. Blondie in her lap, straddling. Emerald's mouth at her collarbone. One hand under her skirt now--wait, no skirt, pants, no pants now, off, they were off, it didn't matter--Blondie grinding down on her thigh, head thrown back, whispering--

"Don't stop. Please don't stop."

Emerald flinched so hard she almost dropped her bag.

Reality snapped back like a slap.

The bus was still moving. Blondie was still scrolling. Nobody was kissing anybody. And Emerald was gripping her seat like it was going to throw her off.

She pressed her thighs together. Hard. Her skin burned. Her face felt like it was made of fire.

What the fuck was wrong with her?

She wasn't like that. She didn't do this. She wasn't some creeper lezzing out over strangers in public. She wasn't disgusting. She didn't imagine things like--

Like moaning in someone's lap on a bus at 8:43 in the morning.

God.

She wanted to crawl inside her own skin and vanish.

And yet--yet--her mouth was still parted. Her lips still tingled. And her hands were still small, still brown, still aching to reach.

She stared at the floor and did not look up again.

Not even when Blondie got off at 15th and Walnut and left behind the faintest ghost of citrus shampoo in the air.

Not even then.

The redhead got on near Broad and Snyder, earbuds in, shoulders bouncing to a rhythm no one else could hear. Sam Cooke, if Emerald had to guess--there was a certain sway to her, like her hips remembered Motown even if her mouth didn't. She was tiny. Bird-boned. Pale like moonlight with freckles scattered across her chest like a constellation someone gave up mapping.

Emerald knew her type.

The jeans were black, shredded, indecent. Holes big enough to see the curve of her thigh when she sat. And she did--across from Emerald, one leg slung over the other, foot twitching to the beat, oblivious to the fact that her posture was opening her wide.

Emerald stared too long.

Then stared harder.

There was a moment--just a flicker--when Squirrel leaned back to tug her hoodie over her head, and the hem of her tank top lifted just enough to show skin. Not belly. Lower. A hint of waistband. A glimpse of white elastic where hip met pelvis.

Emerald felt her tongue click dry against the roof of her mouth.

She wondered--unbidden, unstoppable--what it looked like under there. Whether that narrow V between her thighs was soft and shaved, or wild and overgrown. Maybe she was waxed. Maybe she had one of those cute little tufts, the kind that peek out when you pull her panties down slow, when she lifts her hips for you without thinking.

Her fingers twitched.

Emerald sat absolutely still.

She imagined the fabric of those jeans, low and tight, peeled down inch by inch. Not in public, of course. Not here. But after. In a back room. Against a wall. With Squirrel's leg hooked around her waist and her hands full of hair and heat and need.

She imagined herself on her knees.

That small white triangle of cotton, wet through. The scent. The taste. The redhead pulling at her braids, grinding forward, saying--

"Use your mouth. Fuck, Emerald, don't stop."

Emerald bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste copper.

She wasn't moving. Not an inch. But her breath was shallow and her pulse had gone thunderous.

Squirrel giggled at something in her phone and bopped her head to the music, completely unaware.

Emerald looked down at her own lap. Her legs were clenched. Her hands folded too tight. Her thighs ached and her panties were ruined and she hadn't even touched herself.

She hated this. And wanted it to never end.

She glanced back up. Just once more. Just one more stolen second.

Squirrel caught her eye.

Not long. Just enough.

And smiled.

It was small. Lazy. Unbothered.

Emerald forgot how to breathe.

Then the redhead went right back to her phone, mouthing some lyric Emerald didn't know, and the moment was over.

Emerald stared out the window the rest of the ride. Every reflection showed her own face and none of it helped.

A bit later...

She didn't mean to follow her.

It just happened.

The woman had that walk--that walk--like the street owed her money and she was about to collect. Tight jeans, platform sandals, hair pulled up in a loose bun that bounced like a challenge with every step. And the body? Jesus. Thick. Breasts like they were trying to claw free from the tank top. Ass like gravity was personal. Italian, probably. South Philly Italian, by the sound of her voice when she barked into her phone near the corner of 4th and South.

"No, ma, I ain't walkin' past her house. I said I wouldn't."

Emerald hadn't even been listening to the street noise until that voice hit her. Loud. Hot. Unbothered. There was authority in it, like she could talk you off a ledge and then bend you over the fire escape just to shut you up.

"Me and Addie... that was a long time ago." The woman said, "It's over."

Carrie, she thought. That was her name. She didn't know it, but she knew it. Carrie with the tits that deserved their own zodiac sign. Carrie with the ass that deserved worship, reverence, a full confession after just thinking about it.

Emerald was four paces behind. Not close-close. Not enough to be creepy. (It was creepy.) Not enough to be noticed. (She hoped.)

She couldn't stop.

The sway of those hips was hypnotic. The jeans were painted on, pockets stretched wide and deep. Emerald imagined gripping them. Yanking them down. Spreading that ass and--

God.

Her thighs were shaking.

Carrie stopped to light a cigarette. Bent slightly to shield the flame. The tank top sagged forward. Cleavage like a religious experience. Sweat beaded between those heavy tits like holy water.

Emerald's mouth actually opened. Open. Like she was catching flies. Or catching breath she didn't have.

In her head, the alley just behind Lorenzo's Pizza was suddenly dark and dripping. She was pressed against the bricks. Carrie in her lap, straddling her, tit in one hand, the other lost between thick thighs. Carrie grinding. Carrie biting her lip. Carrie saying shit like--

"You wanna taste me, baby girl? Then open that fuckin' mouth."

Emerald almost whimpered.

Her panties were a fucking disaster. She hadn't touched herself in days--was trying not to--but her clit was pulsing like a strobe light.

She needed to stop. Right fucking now.

Carrie hadn't noticed her. Didn't look back. Didn't slow. Just strutted forward with the kind of confidence Emerald couldn't even fake.

At 6th Street, Carrie veered right, tossing the cigarette behind her in a glittering arc. The flame sparked out before it hit the sidewalk.

Emerald stood there. Still. Breathing like she'd run a marathon in heels.

She leaned against a newspaper box and closed her eyes. Tried to will her body into silence.

She hated this part. The shaking. The guilt. The sour taste of knowing it's all in her head--always in her head. Always alone.

She never touched anyone. Never even spoke. But her imagination was a crime scene.

And right now, she wanted to be handcuffed.

Bad.

It was a hot Thursday, city-slicked and pulsing with too much noise. Emerald had gone out for coffee she didn't need, just to get out of her own head. South Street again. Always South Street. Familiar and strange, like a neighborhood that had stopped pretending it was ever for her.

She spotted her at the corner near the tattoo shop. Bare-shouldered, long-legged, glowing like something the sun chose to shine on. Must've been eighteen, maybe nineteen. Young, but not soft. Regal. Taut. Her tank top was the color of ripe peaches and barely clung to her--thin straps, no bra. Skin like carved mahogany, slick with heat, dotted with sweat like jewels on her collarbone. Her hair was natural and high, crown-like. Her lips were glossed.

She was... perfect.

And Emerald couldn't not look.

It started with a glance, then stretched out, too long, too greedy. Her eyes wandered--over the girl's chest, the curve of her waist, the rise of her hip, the gap in her shorts that showed the meat of her thigh.

Imagine those legs around your head.

Imagine the way she'd grind.

Imagine her panting, her fingers in your hair, saying--

"You want it so bad? Then earn it."

Emerald exhaled. Too heavy. Too loud.

That's when the girl turned.

Dead on.

Caught her in the act.

Her brows drew together, lips parting in slow disbelief, like really, bitch?

Emerald froze.

Their eyes locked.

Emerald tried to soften her face, tried to look neutral, tried to un-horny her entire existence in a split second, but it was too late. The girl knew. She knew.

"Can I help you?" the girl asked, voice sharp as a fresh edge. Her body turned toward Emerald now, squared, offended.

Emerald's mouth worked open. "No--God, no, I wasn't--"

"You was." Calm. Flat. Fucking devastating.

"I just-- I liked your shirt. It's a really nice--color, I mean."

That look she gave. Not angry. Worse. Disappointed. Like Emerald was the slow kid in class who should've known better by now.

The girl scoffed and shook her head, turning away, muttering something Emerald couldn't quite catch--but it sounded like, "Fuckin' creep," and that felt about right.

Emerald stood there, burning from scalp to ankles. She wanted to explain, to explain, like maybe there were words that could make it okay.

She hadn't meant it like that. Not really. Not to harm. It was just... her brain. Her loneliness. Her wiring.

But the girl was already gone, slipping into the crowd, hips swaying like a verdict. And Emerald?

Emerald sank down onto the nearest bench and covered her face with her hands.

What the fuck was she turning into?

She couldn't even look at women anymore without it getting filthy inside her head. Like every beautiful thing got dragged through a fantasy until it wasn't even human anymore--just parts. Just friction. Just noise.

She used to be better than this. Didn't she?

Or maybe she was always like this, and just getting closer to the rot now.

It was dusk. The light had gone soft and golden, slanting long across the sidewalk like it was trying to be gentle with the city for once. Emerald sat on the same crooked bench near 9th and Christian, half-watching the sky bleed itself dry.

And that's when she saw them.

Two women at the bus stop across the street. One tall and stocky in a painter's jacket, one short and curvy in a lavender dress. They stood close--close in that way that wasn't afraid. Familiar. Intimate. The tall one was saying something, laughing low. The short one tucked her fingers into the other's collar like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there.

Then the kiss.

Quick, but not rushed. Open-mouthed, but not obscene. Real. The kind of kiss that had history in it. A goodbye kiss with five years and four apartments and six arguments stitched into it. A kiss that says I'll see you later, not I need you now.

Emerald stopped breathing.

She didn't want to fuck them. Not really. Not in the alley, not on her knees. She didn't want to tear anything. She didn't want to ruin it.

She wanted in.

She wanted that kiss. That ease. That unthinking entitlement to affection. That confidence to touch and be touched. To press your lips against someone in public and not flinch. To be known and wanted and not have to imagine it all from scratch like a porn loop.

She felt like a ghost. Like someone watching life through a dirty aquarium wall.

She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to pretend it wasn't hunger.

Tried to pretend it wasn't jealousy.

This isn't who I am, she thought.

But it was.

The women kissed again, softer this time, before the bus pulled up. They didn't notice her. No one ever did. She was just a shape, a shadow on a bench.

When the bus doors hissed open, the one in the dress stepped back, smiling like the parting didn't hurt. The other one boarded. The bus pulled away.

And Emerald sat there like someone left behind.

She didn't even know which one she'd rather be.

But God--she knew she wanted something. Anything. A hand on her back. A kiss to her cheek. A name said out loud with kindness. Something real.

But she stayed sitting.

As always.

She couldn't.

Not yet.

It was a Tuesday, the kind of overcast day where everything looked like an old photograph. Emerald was at the co-op market on 7th, pretending to shop. Wandering the produce like she knew how to cook something besides regret. She stood too long by the peaches, her fingers grazing the fuzz of one as she watched a woman in bike shorts squat to pick through zucchinis.

The curve of her ass was outrageous. Emerald didn't even try to stop herself. It was instinct now. Breasts, hips, thighs. A mental schematic drawn in heat. Her eyes mapped the muscles in the woman's calves like blueprints. Just a flash fantasy: her face between those legs, the tang of sweat, the way she'd moan when--

"You always look at girls like that?" came a voice, just behind her.

Emerald startled. Dropped the peach.

She turned.

She hadn't noticed the woman. Not this one. Taller than her by a few inches, strong jaw, warm brown skin, hair cropped close and neat. Casual. Confident. A linen shirt half-tucked like she hadn't tried but somehow nailed it anyway.

"Sorry," Emerald mumbled. "I wasn't--"

"You were," the woman said, smiling. But not unkind. "It's okay. You're not the first."

Emerald's stomach dropped. A strange tightness bloomed behind her ribs, like panic laced with static.

"You're cute," the woman added. "A little intense, maybe, but cute."

Emerald laughed, but it was the wrong kind of laugh. High and panicked. "I don't-- I'm not--"

The woman took a step closer. Still smiling. Her tone was soft now. No pressure. "Look. I'm not weird about it. I just noticed you noticing her. And then I noticed you."

Emerald shook her head, fast. "I really wasn't trying to--"

"Relax." The woman held up both hands. "How about a coffee? Just coffee. That's all I'm sayin'. Just... see where it goes."

Emerald's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

The heat in her face was unbearable. Her body wanted to crawl under the nearest bin of root vegetables and rot.

"No," she said, too quickly. "I can't. I'm not-- I'm not like that."

The woman blinked. "Like what?"

Emerald didn't answer. Just took a step back, nearly tripping over her own tote bag. Her heart was pounding. Her armpits were soaked. She felt like every awful, horny, lurking part of her had just been seen under a floodlight.

"You don't have to be scared," the woman said gently. "Seriously. It's just coffee."

Emerald shook her head again. "I have to go."

She turned and walked out, leaving the peach where it lay, her breath tight and her whole body humming with shame.

Outside, the air was damp and cold and she welcomed it. She let it bite her. She needed it to bite her.

Because that had been real. Not a fantasy. Not a flicker behind her eyes. An actual human being had seen her. Offered her something. And she'd run.

Because she didn't know how to be seen without hiding.

Because she was so used to wanting, she couldn't imagine being wanted back.

She walked onto the bus like it was a runway and Emerald's stomach turned before she even knew why.

Tall. Glowing. One of those golden-skinned women who looked airbrushed in daylight, like she had her own lighting team. The kind of beauty that felt intentional, like she knew exactly what effect she had and decided to lean into it. Tight jeans. Flowy white blouse with the sleeves rolled. Bra strap visible--red, of course. Like it was a dare. Long dark hair pulled into a perfect messy knot that looked effortless but probably took three tries.

Emerald hated her instantly.

She didn't even have a name yet. Just that woman. That smug, barefoot-in-a-Tulum-resort-looking bitch.

She hated the way she moved, slow and easy, like the air got out of her way. She hated the delicate jewelry on her fingers, the unbothered posture, the way her face rested in a gentle half-smile like she was in on something.

Emerald was hunched. Greasy. Her thighs stuck to the seat. She probably smelled like fear and old deodorant. And this woman floated past like an ad for a lifestyle Emerald couldn't afford, emotionally or otherwise.

When their eyes met--just briefly--it wasn't heat that surged through Emerald. It was heatstroke. A rush of fury and embarrassment and grief, all tangled and clawing.

Look away. Please, God, look away.

But she didn't.

She smiled. Polite. Dismissive.

Emerald's stomach clenched like a fist. That fucking smile.

It wasn't flirtatious. It was charitable. Like someone tossing a dollar at a homeless woman and not sticking around to see if she says thank you.

Emerald dropped her gaze and chewed the inside of her cheek raw.

You think you're better than me?

You think you're so whole, so fuckable, so content?

She didn't even know this woman's name and she already wanted to slap her across the mouth or fuck her up against the window or both. In her head, it flipped back and forth like a strobe. Lust, violence, self-hatred, rinse, repeat.

That wasn't new. But this flavor was.

This wasn't fantasy.

This was fury.

The woman sat down four rows ahead and crossed her legs. One ankle bobbed gently. Airpods in. Unreachable.

Emerald watched her the entire ride like a hunter who hated herself for picking up the bow.

The house smelled like old socks and bacon grease.

Her dad was on the couch again, shirtless, sunken in, surrounded by empty Coors cans and an ashtray overflowing like a time-lapse of every bad decision he'd ever made. The TV blared some game--basketball maybe, or football, or whatever sport involved yelling grown men and commentary that sounded like static and testosterone.

"Hey, Em," he said without looking, a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth. "You eat?"

"I'm good," she muttered, already halfway down the hall.

Her room was small and hot, box fan buzzing weakly in the corner. The sheets were tangled, the window barely cracked. She dropped her bag, pulled off her hoodie, and sat on the edge of the bed with her face in her hands.

Twenty. Still at home. Still broke. Still lying to everyone.

Still her.

She thought of that woman from the bus. Again. The enemy. Miss glowing fucking goddess. White blouse, red bra strap, the perfect bun, the pity-smile. Like she knew every kind of touch and had never flinched from any of them. Like she'd never been ashamed of anything she wanted.

Emerald hated her so much she could barely see straight.

But her hand was already creeping down, like it had its own agenda.

She lay back. Kicked off her jeans. Pressed her thighs together. Shut her eyes.

And there she was.

The hated woman, looking down at her with that smug, slow smile. Unbuttoning her blouse like she was bored. Pulling that red strap down her shoulder. Emerald pictured being shoved to her knees, made to earn it. Picture her saying you're so fucking hungry for this, aren't you? You filthy little thing.

She didn't last a minute.

Her orgasm hit her like a slap--sharp, wet, full-body and fast. Too fast. Ugly fast. No buildup. No grace. Just a crack of lightning and then nothing but her gasping into the still air, skin flushed, panties damp, thighs shaking like a drunk's hands.

She stared at the ceiling and felt rotten.

Not just ashamed. Disgusted.

What kind of person comes thinking about a woman she hates? What kind of broken little freak fantasizes about being punished by someone they couldn't even make eye contact with?

She curled onto her side, pulled the sheets over her face like they could smother the truth. Like they could turn her back into something good.

The fan buzzed.

The TV echoed through the wall--cheering, whistles, shouting.

She didn't cry.

But she wanted to.

It was just after nine, CVS still quiet, half-lit like the store hadn't decided if it wanted to be awake yet. Emerald had wandered in under the guise of needing mouthwash, but she wasn't really shopping. She didn't shop. She lingered.

Hair dye aisle. Then deodorant. Then the makeup section. She ghosted her fingers over a blush compact, thinking about a girl from the bus who'd had skin like that--warm and soft and fuckable--when a voice cut through her little mental porn loop like a box cutter:

"If you're not gonna buy it, babe, don't fondle it."

Emerald jumped.

She looked up and there she was.

Carina Marie Delvecchio.

Manager on duty. Red nails. Clipboard tucked under one arm, phone in the other, tits straining under her polo like they were unionizing.

"You keep touching every shade like you're gonna fuck it. What is this--blush foreplay?"

Emerald stammered. "Sorry. I didn't mean--"

"You didn't mean what, exactly?" Carrie tilted her head, eyes scanning her like a barcode. "Didn't mean to lurk? Didn't mean to drool on aisle four? Or didn't mean to stare at my ass for the last five minutes?"

Emerald's throat closed.

"Yeah. I clocked you, swampwitch."

She stepped in closer. Smelled like peach vape and cheap perfume, and somehow made both sexy.

"You're cute," Carrie said. "In a sad little 'I own four journals and cry after orgasms' way."

Emerald flushed. Her legs were jelly. Her brain said run, but her body stood still.

"What's your name?"

"Emerald."

Carrie blinked once, then grinned slow. "That's not a name. That's a fucking mood disorder."

Emerald almost laughed. Almost.

"Let me guess," Carrie said. "You're twenty, live at home, closet case, jerk off to women you hate, and think being miserable makes you interesting."

Emerald's face burned. Every word landed like a slap she wanted.

"Listen, Emerald," Carrie said, drawing the name out like it tasted bitter. "I don't usually fuck the customers. Especially not the ones who stare like it's a talent show. But you? You got potential."

Emerald blinked. "I do?"

"No," Carrie said, deadpan. "But I'm bored. And you look like you'd cry if someone came on your face."

Emerald's knees buckled.

"Here's the thing," Carrie said. "You're hot. In a tragic, fingering-yourself-in-the-dark kinda way. But you're also exhausting. Self-hating. Poorly written. You think your shame makes you deep. It doesn't. It just makes you tedious."

Emerald looked down, humiliated. But wet. So fucking wet she couldn't breathe.

"So," Carrie said, licking her thumb and flipping a page on her clipboard, "you gonna stop jerking off to your own sadness and ask me out? Or are you gonna keep walking around this store like a haunted fuckdoll?"

Silence.

Emerald said nothing. Couldn't.

"That's what I thought," Carrie muttered, walking away. "Another day, another disappointment."

She turned once at the end of the aisle, eyes gleaming.

"You could be hot, you know. If you ever stopped being such a coward."

Then she was gone.

And Emerald stood there, trembling, a pack of lipstick-stained tissues in her hand and a puddle of want at her feet.

The fluorescent lights were too bright. The exit chime too sharp. Emerald didn't walk out of the CVS so much as escape it--bagless, breathless, red in the face and shaking like a leaf someone stepped on.

Her thighs were slick. Her hoodie was soaked through at the armpits. She hadn't even bought the mouthwash.

Behind her, near the register, Carrie had leaned against the counter, casually magnetic, laughing at something with a woman Emerald hadn't even noticed before--short, curvy, Latina, her hair piled in curls and a CVS badge pinned crooked to her chest. Valeria, maybe? The name tag was smudged. She had hips like sin and the kind of ass that made people believe in religion again.

They were both laughing. Loud. Honest.

Emerald didn't hear the words.

She didn't have to.

They were laughing at her. Obviously.

She could feel it. Down her spine. In her bones. The way Carrie had looked at her like a puzzle with no solution. The way she'd toyed with her, tasted her name like it was a punchline.

And now this Valeria girl--laughing too.

You saw how she stammered?

God, you really told her.

Sad little lesbian disaster. Probably gonna cry in the Wawa parking lot like it's a poem.

Emerald walked faster. Out onto the sidewalk. The heat hit her like a slap. Her face was flushed, her ears ringing. She could still hear their laughter echoing behind her.

She ducked into the alley next to the vape shop. Bent double. Put her hands on her knees like she'd just run a mile.

"You're disgusting," she muttered aloud.

She could still feel Carrie's voice in her ear, sticky and bright and cruel. Still see her smirk. Still hear the echo of "You could be hot if you weren't such a coward."

And now they were in there together. Laughing. Probably high-fiving. Probably mocking the way she had trembled, the way her breath had hitched.

Emerald felt the nausea crawl up her throat.

She hated herself for wanting Carrie.

She hated Carrie for being right.

She hated Valeria for laughing.

She hated the heat.

She hated the world.

She hated that part of her that still--still--wanted to go back inside and beg for more.

Instead she pressed her forehead against the graffiti-tagged brick and whispered:

"Don't cry here. Don't you fucking cry here."

A rat skittered past. She didn't flinch.

Back in the store, the chime went off again. Someone else entered. Another life. Another story.

Emerald stayed in the alley until her legs stopped shaking. Then she walked home, silent and sticky and cracked open.

They probably weren't laughing at her.

But that didn't matter.

She'd already written the scene. She knew her role.

And in her version?

She was always the joke.

Back inside the CVS, the AC hummed, the fluorescent lights buzzed, and Carrie was half-lounging against the counter with a Sour Patch Kid dangling from her lips. She was scrolling through her phone, thumb flicking rapid-fire.

Valeria leaned on one elbow beside her, sipping an iced coffee she absolutely did not pay for, curly hair bouncing as she giggled.

"No no no--go back, go back," Val said, reaching for the phone. "That one. The cat with the limp! He's creeping like he's in Mission: Impossible."

Carrie smirked, rewound, and held it up again.

On-screen: a big, fluffy orange tabby tiptoeing across a hardwood floor with exaggerated care, tail flicking like he was defusing a bomb. Then, from off-screen, a tiny black kitten leapt into frame.

The tabby screamed--a full-throated feline yowl--and launched four feet into the air like he'd been electrocuted.

Val doubled over, nearly choking on her coffee.

"Bro, that cat fucking levitated!"

Carrie was howling now, slapping her thigh. "I've never related to anything more in my life. That's me every time I hear my mom say my name in that tone."

They kept laughing. Playing it again. Carrie mimicked the cat's hop. Val made a peeeewww! sound effect like a rocket launching.

They didn't even notice the door chime.

They didn't see Emerald leave.

Carrie didn't glance at the exit. Val didn't pause her laughter. The world didn't slow down for sad girls in hoodies.

To them, Emerald was just another person. Just another soft blur passing through fluorescent air.

The only person starring in Emerald's tragic little CVS drama--was Emerald.

Emerald sat in the middle again. SEPTA, eastbound, somewhere between hopeless and familiar. The seat under her stuck to her thighs with sweat. Her hoodie was too warm, but she needed the pocket. The pocket gave her hands something to do. Something besides twitch.

She hadn't changed. Not really.

She still watched.

First was the blonde by the window. Ponytail. Headphones. Bright pink sports bra visible under her white tank top. She bounced her knee as she scrolled her phone, and every motion made her tits shift, just a little. Like slow tides. Emerald watched the sway, imagined cupping one in her hand like a blessing. Just the weight of it, the way it might fill her palm.

She bit the inside of her cheek. It had barely healed from the last time.

Then the girl across the aisle. Book in hand. Legs crossed high and careless in a sundress that didn't know how to behave. Brown thighs, soft and bare, rising to shadows. Emerald imagined herself slipping between them like a rumor. Mouth first.

The heat pooled low in her stomach.

She looked down. Tried to breathe. But her eyes kept lifting. There was always another woman. Another flash of collarbone, lip gloss, a sliver of bra strap peeking out. A glimpse of hip. A freckled shoulder.

A world of stories she wrote with her tongue and her shame.

None of them knew. Of course they didn't. She never touched. Never spoke. Never acted.

But she watched. And imagined. And wanted.

God, she wanted.

A part of her told her to stop. Had been telling her for years. But it was a small voice now. Drowned in static.

She saw the two girls in the back--laughing too loud, leaning on each other like drunk lovers even though it was barely 4 p. m. One kissed the other's shoulder.

Emerald's stomach clenched.

She didn't want to fuck them. She wanted to be them. Wanted to be the kind of person who could laugh and kiss and touch without dissolving in guilt. Wanted to be part of the story. But she wasn't.

She was the watcher. The outsider. The shadow seat in the middle of the bus.

She leaned her forehead against the window. Watched the city blur by. Tried to memorize the sound of strangers' voices. The smell of skin. The pulse in her thighs.

She wasn't growing. She wasn't healing.

She was just riding in circles.

Like always.

Carrie looked up from her clipboard.

"You know that girl? Biracial, kinda short--like five-two maybe? Wears those tight little hoodies like she's hiding a secret and it's definitely porn. Cornrows, real cute face, but, like... haunted. Hot in that desperate way. The kind where you know if you kissed her, she'd write a poem about it and then finger herself while crying.

Yeah. Her. Emerald. That's her name. Swear to God. Like a gemstone or a stripper or a mid-tier weed strain."

She pauses, flips her clipboard.

"She's not like, 'dangerous' dangerous. But you can smell the kink. Chick's got repression dripping off her like sweat. Bet she hasn't been touched in six months and probably thinks eye contact is foreplay. I said boo and she looked like she came in her fuckin' shoes."

Valeria just sips her iced coffee and raises an eyebrow. Carrie grins.

"She wants me. Bad. But she doesn't know whether to hate me for it or thank me. Which--honestly? My favorite kind."

"Emerald's not just horny," Carrie says, setting down her clipboard like she's about to give a TED talk. "She's erotically fixated on the symbolic collapse of self-other boundaries as a substitute for genuine fuckin' intimacy."

Val's halfway through a sip and chokes. "What?"

"I'm serious," Carrie says, all crisp now, like someone clicked a switch. "She exhibits all the classic traits of libidinal dissonance. High fantasy dependency. Object-relational collapse. Classic eroticized shame. Probably stemmin' from early attachment disruptions."

Val stares. "Are you okay?"

"I took a psych class once," Carrie mutters. "The professor said I was 'deeply concerning.' But that's beside the point."

She leans in again, back in her element. "Emerald doesn't wanna fuck me. Not really. She wants to be me, destroy me, and apologize for it. All at once. She wants a woman who'll hurt her on purpose, then call it worship. That's not sex. That's fucking theology."

Val blinks. "Okay, Jesus."

"Exactly," Carrie says. "She wants to get crucified by a hot girl and call it growth."