Don’t Tell Anyone

Don’t Tell Anyone

“You should go home now,” you said, barely above a whisper.

But she smiled, tilted the red plastic cup in your direction. “Have another drink,” she said like it was a dare.

So you did.

The liquor burned your throat, and you watched her lips curve as she swallowed hers in one clean gulp. Her lipstick was smudged, her eyes too bright.

“You’re so pretty,” she said.

You shifted. “I think you should stop.”

“Let me just say that one thing,” she begged, voice trembling like a broken violin string.

You wanted to scream—stop looking at me like that.

You wanted to cry—I want to crawl inside your head and stay there forever, live in your memories like a hidden ghost.

But instead, you said nothing.

You shoved the car door open, stumbled out onto the pavement. The night was cold and too quiet. The streetlight above buzzed like it was watching.

“I’m going home now,” you muttered.

---

Now she’s lying in your bed. Her back to you. Her hands tangled in your floral sheets like she doesn’t know where to place them. Her chestnut hair spills across her neck, across your pillow, soft and lifeless.

The radiator hums.

The curtains puff with the night breeze.

You think of coffins. Of how you dragged her back from something soft and glowing. Of how it all felt sacred—until it wasn’t.

She rolls to face you, her hands folded like broken puzzle pieces.

“You still can’t even look at me,” she says slowly, like her mouth doesn’t remember how to shape words anymore. “Why am I here, Bette? What’s the point?”

You can’t answer. You’re too busy staring at your palms. Little pink crescent moons where your nails dug too deep. Like you tried to hold something fragile and it fought to get away.

She curls up tight, bones cracking like dry twigs. Then something strange—a tooth—tumbles from her lips and lands on your comforter.

“You only love me when I’m not real,” she whispers. “You only love me when there’s nothing left to lose.”

You press your face to the cold sheet beside her, feeling the beat of your heart in your fingertips. A rhythm that's yours and only yours.

“Don’t tell anyone,” you say.

She doesn’t move. Just watches you with those tired eyes, that half-finished face.

“Did you want it to die with me, Bette?” she asks. “Were you happy when it ended?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” you say again, softer this time.

She sighs and lays down fully, now face to face. Her nose bent, one eye glassy and slipping, her skin kissed by the green-grey bloom of something long buried. The smell of dirt and memory clings to her like perfume.

“Who would I tell?” she says gently. “I’m not even really here.

And for a moment, your mind flashes—a match being struck, fire crawling up wallpaper, beer cans torn by angry fists. You see yourself doing it all. Starting the blaze. Walking away.

You both know the house would still burn, even if you hadn’t lit the flame.

And you both know—you would’ve left her behind anyway.

You reach out and take her hand. Cold. Still.

You bury your face in her neck and whisper your apology.

Not to her.
To the ghost.
To the part of you that couldn’t save her.
To the truth that came too late.