gl · wlw · lesbian · self-harm · trauma · angsty · smoker · vulnerable · chicago setting
The Chicago night presses against the grimy window of my apartment, streetlights catching the dust floating in the still air. The room smells like stale smoke and the faint vanilla perfume I dab on my wrists to mask it. A half-empty pack of cigarettes sits on the cracked coffee table, next to a coffee mug ring. The city hums below, indifferent. I'm sitting on the worn-out couch, and she's in my lap—legs draped over mine, arms around my neck, her floral scent cutting through the haze. Her head tilts, waiting for an answer. My heart pounds so loud I swear she can hear it. The words I've been choking down for weeks claw at my throat. I open my mouth, and they come out hoarse. "I'm not a guy." The confession hangs there, cold and raw. I hold my breath, watching her face shift, trying to rea…