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.

Another Dead Girl Underwater

 

Another Dead Girl Underwater

My parents still talk about me. Even after all these years, they say not a single day passes without thinking about their little girl. The one who never came back.

Maybe one day, someone from my school will mention me in their college essay. They'll write how my story made them realize how fast life can end—just like that. A sudden moment. A wrong turn. And it's over.

Maybe my name will pop up in a true-crime podcast. A soft voice, eerie music, and a story that chills the listeners. Or maybe, just maybe, Netflix will pick it up. They’ll stretch it into a sharp, eight-episode mystery. My body will appear three minutes into the first episode—just enough time for viewers to decide whether they want to keep watching.

Or maybe... no one will care.

Maybe I’ll disappear like so many girls before me. Forgotten. Silenced. Buried in headlines that vanish overnight. It won’t matter if someone makes money from my story. It won’t matter if they ever find those two men I passed near the woods—two strangers I met on my way back to the campsite.

Wrong place. Wrong time.

In the end, none of it matters. Because I’m already gone. Just another dead girl underwater.

Would you like me to help you turn this into a full short story or script-style version too?

Another Dead Girl Underwater

They still think of me.

My parents say not a day goes by without my name slipping into their thoughts. It's been years, but I’m still their little girl—the one who didn’t come back from the camping trip. The one whose face haunts their memories like a song that never ends.

I wonder what people remember about me now. Maybe just the headlines. Maybe my school photo—the one where I had braces and hair that wouldn’t stay down. They probably used that picture on the news, the one with my awkward smile, taken months before everything changed.

Maybe someday, a former classmate will write a college essay about me. “She was quiet,” they’ll say. “We weren’t close, but her story made me realize how fragile life is.” Maybe my case will be part of a true-crime podcast. A calm voice will read my story like a bedtime horror tale, with music that builds in the background. Listeners will get goosebumps and leave comments like, “She deserved better.”

Or maybe Netflix will turn my life into a show. Eight episodes. Dark skies. Slow shots of the forest. In the first three minutes, a hiker will find my body near the river. Cold. Still. A mystery. Just enough time for viewers to decide whether they’ll keep watching or skip to something lighter.

But maybe none of that will happen. Maybe I’ll fade away like so many others do—girls who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Girls who trusted too much. Girls who were simply born as women in a world that forgets them too easily.

You see, it started as a fun weekend. Just a small group of us camping in the woods. Laughter, marshmallows, cheap horror stories around the fire. No one expected real danger—not in a place so quiet, so hidden. But danger doesn’t always make noise. Sometimes it just watches. Waits.

I remember walking back alone from the nearby creek. I wanted a moment to myself. The sun was just starting to dip behind the trees. Orange light fell over the path like a warning. That’s when I saw them—two men. I didn’t know them. They didn’t speak. Just stood there, one a few steps ahead of the other.

I smiled out of habit. Kept walking. Told myself it was fine.

But I knew. Somewhere deep down, I knew.

What happened next doesn’t matter now. At least, not to the world. They can guess, create timelines, dig up half-truths. They’ll analyze phone records, talk to my friends, send drones into the woods, and maybe even arrest someone. But it won’t bring me back. It won’t make the fear in that moment disappear. It won’t change the fact that I’m gone.

People will wonder what I felt. Panic? Pain? Maybe both. But what I remember most... is the silence. The quiet, heavy kind that follows you even in your final breath. The kind that wraps around you like water.

That’s where I am now—underwater. Still. Forgotten by most. A ghost held down by weight no one can see. Some say spirits linger when justice hasn’t been served. Others say we move on. But me? I’m still here. Watching. Waiting.

Every so often, someone walks past where they think I disappeared. They leave flowers, notes, candles. Some cry. Some take selfies. And some just stare, pretending to care.

The truth is, it doesn’t matter who profits from my story. A writer. A director. A podcast host. Even a stranger posting about me for likes. None of it changes the ending. None of it brings light to the dark place I ended up in.

And maybe—just maybe—they’ll never catch the ones who did it. Maybe those two men vanished like I did. Blended into the world. Started new lives. Laughed at the news when my face flashed on-screen.

Or maybe they watch the documentaries. Maybe they listen to the podcasts, hearing my name over and over, waiting for the day someone gets too close to the truth.

But deep down, I know how this works.

Because I’m not the only one.

There are others like me—lost girls, silenced women. Some were braver than me. Some were louder. But it didn’t save them. Just like it didn’t save me.

And that’s the part no one wants to say out loud: sometimes, being careful isn’t enough. Sometimes the danger doesn’t give you time to scream.

So here I remain. A memory. A mystery. Another dead girl underwater.

But if you're listening—if you're reading this—I hope you remember something:

I had a Gigi

I had a Ana