Lili & Daphne
“Night, Daph.”
Lili doesn’t wait for a response. She slips down the hall, pausing just long enough to glance back. Daphne’s still spinning barefoot in the living room, glass raised, mouthing lyrics to some forgotten Italian disco track.
This was supposed to be an escape. Instead it’s been two days of vigilance, of managing someone else’s chaos, of ignoring the quiet voice that told her not to come. She closes her bedroom door and leans against it, finally alone. Only then does she check her phone.
Sixteen missed calls. Dozens of texts. Three voicemails. All from Casey. She doesn’t listen to any of them, but she can imagine. Good. He’s worried. She almost smiles. Now he knows what it feels like.
But the moment fades. Because she hasn’t let herself check her DM’s all weekend. Too much wine. Too much Daphne. Too much effort spent pretending she wasn’t counting the hours until she could go home.
But now she looks. They haven’t stopped. She knew they wouldn’t, but her stomach still drops.
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You’ll never make him happy. He thinks of me when he fucks you. Does he even fuck you anymore? I’m the one he wants. It’s your fault.
Big Sur was supposed to clear her head, but everything she tried to leave behind has followed her here. The messages, the missed calls, the flicker of dread each time her phone lit up—she ignored them all. She thought distance might soften the noise. It didn’t.
She should’ve trusted her instinct. She should’ve stayed home. Now all she can think about is what’s waiting for her when they return. She sinks onto the edge of the bed, gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the ocean churns against the cliffs… like it’s still waiting for her to fall.
The drive home the next morning is treacherous.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” Lili shouts over the wind.
Daphne presses the gas. “What, you don’t trust me?”
“You’re going a little fast!”
“Deal with it,” Daphne mutters, eyes fixed ahead. The PCH gleams too bright in the morning sun.
Lili fumbles for her phone. A new alert flashes across the screen: He deserves better. Do you?
She gasps, just as the car jerks, tires squealing.
“Slow down! This isn’t funny!”
“Nothing’s funny anymore,” Daphne snaps.
The car fishtails around a bend, screeching.
“Daphne, please—!”
And then, finally, a breath. A shudder. Daphne eases off the gas. The car steadies. Silence presses in, broken only by the thrum of tires on asphalt. The ocean unspools beside them, glittering into the endless unknown. Behind them, fog creeps over the cliffs, ghostly tendrils snaking inland, chasing them home like truths they can’t outrun, or lies slithering back.