¬ Cough Syrup ¬
Life is short, too fleeting to be wrapped up in all this mess. She’s broken, yes, but there’s a strange sense of control in that. Raptures mar her body, and paint is plastered all over her skin. It’s streaked across her hands, smudged into her clothes, dripping onto the white floor beneath her. Maybe she’d finally see herself for what she was—if only she dared to look with her eyes. Instead, she just thinks it.
Her fault. The words sit heavy in her mind. It doesn’t leave her feeling angry, or even sad. It’s just a truth, flat and undeniable, something she whispers to herself when no one’s around. It replays endlessly, like a cracked record she can’t turn off. She doesn’t even try to say it out loud. Because if she did, wouldn’t that make them disappointed?
There’s nothing left to do. Nothing more to fix, nothing to mend, no way to go back. She’s at the end of it all—the end goal. And what’s the point of redoing the race when you already know the finish line’s empty?
Her gaze drifts to the white room. There’s nothing here—no windows, no doors, just her and the relentless blankness of it all. A counter, a mirror, both unyielding and stark. She’s stood here before, countless times, staring at her own reflection with eyes too blind to really see.
But now, she can see it. She can see everything—the twisted version of herself she’s been conjuring all this time. And yet, she refuses to acknowledge it for what it is.
A mistake.
That’s all it was. An unintended action. A mistake anyone could have made. And yet she’s haunted by it. It clings to her like the paint, impossible to wash away, impossible to forget. She’s still guilty of it, even though she never meant for it to happen. How could she ever look them in the eyes again? She won’t even admit it to herself—not in words, not even in thoughts.
Not until she’s pulled out of it. Not until there are hands gripping her broken body—hands so familiar, they ache her heart in a way that feels almost unbearable.
When she emerges, she’s gasping for air, like she’s been dragged from the bottom of the ocean. Her senses return all at once, overwhelming her. The smell of soap, the chill of the air, the weight of her drenched clothes. She’s lying in a filled bathtub, water clinging to her orange jacket, her jeans sticking to her skin.
She feels the hands again—firm, steady, holding her as though she’s fragile. They’re lined with deep etches, mechanical and strange, faint whirrs humming with every movement. These fingers grasp her with a gentleness that makes her chest tighten. She doesn’t deserve this. And yet, the hands don’t let her fall.
When she’s placed on the cold floor of the bathroom, water pooling beneath her, she stares up at the figure above her. Upside-down green eyes meet hers, wide and unblinking. The tears come without warning, hot and relentless. She hates it. Hates how easily the sobs escape her, how pathetic she must look—soaked to the bone, crumpled on the floor, her face twisted with grief she can’t control.
Life isn’t short. It’s meaningless. That thought is louder than all the others. She shouldn’t be forgiven, not like this. It wasn’t supposed to be this easy.
But then the words come, soft and clear, in an accent that cuts through her spiralling thoughts like a knife.
“It’s not your fault.”
She chokes on a sob, trying to swallow it down, trying to make it stop. But she can’t. Why should she be saved like this? After everything she’s done? After the way she’s stumbled through life, fumbling at every turn? Why is there still care for her in this world?
“Gigi.”
Her name pulls her back, grounding her. She blinks, her vision blurred from tears, and stares back at the green-eyed girl.
She must look miserable—her soaked clothes clinging to her like a second skin, her hair a tangled mess, her face blotchy from crying. She knows she does. She doesn’t need to see it.
With Cecilia’s face hovering above hers, upside down, she can’t tell if she’s smiling or frowning.
“Gigi?”
The way Cecilia says it makes her chest ache. Not with guilt, or shame, or even regret. Just something raw. Something she can’t name.
Her name echoes like a ripple. Gigi.
It shouldn’t matter anymore, and yet it does. That one word cuts through her mind like a sharp edge. Cecilia’s voice is always soft, like velvet, even when Gigi feels like she’s drowning. The world is cold, her jacket clings tighter than her thoughts, and yet that voice pulls her back.
“Cecilia,” she whispers back, barely audible. Her throat burns, not just from the cough syrup she swallowed moments before all this. It’s everything else—guilt, fear, the weight of her own existence.
The bathroom feels suffocating now, the kind of suffocation that isn’t about air. She doesn’t know if it’s Cecilia’s presence that’s making it harder to breathe or easier. The hands that saved her—the ones holding onto her just moments ago—aren’t letting go entirely. Cecilia kneels there, too close for comfort but too far for relief.
“You’re okay,” Cecilia says, her voice like it’s telling a bedtime story. Gigi wants to believe her, but her mind screams otherwise.
She swallows hard, her throat tight, and her eyes flutter closed. “I’m not. Don’t lie to me.”
Cecilia’s laugh isn’t a laugh—it’s that strange exhale of air that means nothing’s funny, not anymore. “You’re not okay,” she admits, her voice quiet. “But you can be.”
That’s worse. Gigi feels the tears again before she can stop them. Why is it always this hard? Cecilia doesn’t understand; she can’t. No one could. The paint clings to her skin like evidence. The mirror reflected it, showed her for what she was—messy, broken, unfixable.
Cecilia reaches out, her fingers brushing against Gigi’s paint-streaked arm. She hesitates, like touching her is dangerous, but then she grabs hold. “Look at me.”
Gigi’s head shakes on its own. She can’t. She won’t. “No.”
“Gigi.” Her name again, but softer this time. Pleading. “Please.”
And so, she does. Her tear-stained face turns toward Cecilia, and for the first time, she notices the slight tremble in Cecilia’s lips, the faint lines of worry etched into her brow. Those green eyes—still upside down—are a reflection of something Gigi can’t comprehend.
Cecilia wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t frowning. She was just… there.
“You’re still here,” Cecilia says, and her voice breaks halfway through. “That’s all I need.”
But Gigi doesn’t know if she can be here, not really. Not with the mirror, not with the paint, not with her guilt.
Still, Cecilia stays.
The silence lingers, heavy but not unwelcome. Gigi lets herself sink into it, lets herself breathe in the quiet reassurance of Cecilia’s presence. For the first time in what feels like forever, the chaos in her head slows down, even if just by a fraction.
Cecilia shifts, the movement soft and careful, as though she’s afraid of startling Gigi. She kneels fully now, sitting back on her heels. The faint hum of her mechanical joints fills the air, but it’s not intrusive—it’s steady, calming. Gigi’s breath hitches when she feels Cecilia’s hand resting on her shoulder, hesitant but firm.
“You’re still dripping everywhere,” Cecilia says, her voice light, like she’s trying to make a joke but isn’t sure if it’ll land. “You’re going to ruin the floor.”
Gigi blinks, startled by the comment, and looks down at the growing puddle beneath her. For a second, she forgets the weight on her chest and feels an absurd pang of guilt for the mess. “Sorry,” she mumbles, her voice hoarse.
Cecilia snorts softly. “Don’t be. I don’t care about the floor, Gigi. I just—” She cuts herself off, her words hanging in the air for a moment. Then, with a carefulness that makes Gigi’s throat tighten, Cecilia reaches out and brushes a damp strand of hair from Gigi’s face. “I care about you.”
The words settle in Gigi’s chest like a warm ache. She wants to brush them off, wants to push Cecilia away and curl back into herself, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stays still, letting the warmth seep in even though it feels foreign. Uncomfortable.
“I don’t know why,” Gigi whispers, her voice cracking. “Why you care. Why you’re still here.”
Cecilia tilts her head, her green eyes softening. “Because you’re you,” she says simply, like it’s the easiest answer in the world. Like it’s obvious. “And because I want to be.”
Gigi closes her eyes, tears spilling over again. She doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know how to accept it. But then Cecilia does something that makes her chest ache in a way that isn’t entirely painful. She leans forward, wrapping her arms around Gigi in a loose, careful hug.
Cecilia’s embrace is warm despite the faint coolness of her mechanical frame. It’s steady and grounding, and Gigi feels like she might fall apart all over again. She hesitates for a moment before her body betrays her, leaning into Cecilia’s arms like they’re the only thing keeping her upright.
They sit there for a long time, the bathroom quiet except for the faint hum of Cecilia’s joints and the soft sound of Gigi’s uneven breaths. Eventually, Cecilia pulls back just enough to meet Gigi’s eyes. Her hands move to cup Gigi’s face, her thumbs brushing away the tears still streaking her cheeks.
“You don’t have to do this alone,” Cecilia says gently. “You never do.”
The words settle into Gigi’s chest, carving out a space that feels less heavy, less hollow. She doesn’t know if she believes them yet, doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to. But she nods anyway, her throat too tight to speak.
Cecilia smiles then, soft and genuine, and it makes Gigi’s heart twist. “Good,” she says, brushing one last tear away before letting her hands fall back to her sides. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up before you catch a cold or something.”
Gigi snorts wetly, the sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” Cecilia says with a shrug, her smile widening. “But I’m right.”
Gigi doesn’t argue. For the first time in a long time, she lets herself believe—just a little—that maybe things don’t have to stay broken. That maybe, just maybe, Cecilia’s hands can help her piece herself back together.
¬
Cecilia helps Gigi to her feet, steadying her with those firm, mechanical hands. Gigi feels the warmth of them despite the faint hum of machinery beneath. It’s grounding, reassuring in a way she can’t quite explain.
They move together—Cecilia guiding her out of the suffocating bathroom into a dimly lit hallway. Gigi’s legs feel like they might give out at any moment, but Cecilia’s presence keeps her upright.
As they pass the mirror by the hallway, Gigi catches a glimpse of herself—dishevelled, paint-smeared, her eyes red and puffy. For a moment, she almost looks away, but something stops her.
Her reflection isn’t just messy. It’s human.
“I don’t know if I can fix this,” Gigi murmurs, her voice barely audible.
“You don’t have to fix it all at once,” Cecilia replies, her voice firm but gentle. “You just have to take the next step.”
Gigi stares at the mirror a moment longer before finally turning away. She doesn’t know if she believes Cecilia, not yet. But the idea of a next step—just one, no matter how small—feels less daunting than the weight of the whole world on her shoulders.
“I’ll try,” she says finally, the words tasting foreign on her tongue.
Cecilia smiles—a small, almost fragile thing, but it’s enough to ease the tightness in Gigi’s chest. “That’s all I ask.”
And Gigi lets herself imagine a future where trying is enough.