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Megan’s sneakers squeaked against the wet pavement as she jogged across the bridge, the usual rhythm of her footsteps interrupted by a sharp gasp. There, perched on the railing like a shadow against the predawn gray, was a girl--barefoot, her long black hair lifting slightly in the wind. The girl hadn’t noticed her yet.
Megan's breath hitched mid-stride, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears. She slowed to a stop a few feet away, hands twitching at her sides like she wanted to reach out but wasn’t sure if she should touch a bomb or a ghost. "Hey," she called--too loud, too bright, the way she always was--but the girl didn’t turn. Just kept staring down at the river below, her toes curling against the cold metal railing.
Megan's chest tightened as she inched closer, the damp air clinging to her skin like a second layer of clothes. "You're gonna freeze your ass off up there," she said, forcing a chuckle that sounded more like a wheeze. The girl--Yoonchae, though Megan didn't know that yet--flinched slightly, as if startled by the sound of another voice after hours of silence. Her knuckles whitened where they gripped the railing, but she still didn't turn.
The river below churned black and hungry, swallowing the occasional streetlight reflection whole. Megan's throat burned with the urge to scream, to yank her back by the hood of her sweater, but something in the girl's stillness stopped her. Instead, she leaned her elbows on the railing, close enough that their sleeves almost touched. "I tried this once," she admitted, voice dropping to a murmur. "Had the belt around my neck and everything." A pause. "Then I remembered my mom's last words were 'eat your vegetables, you little shit.'"
Yoonchae's shoulders stiffened. A hiccup of laughter--or maybe a sob--caught in her chest. Megan watched her out of the corner of her eye, noting how the girl's fingernails were bitten raw, how her knees trembled against the metal. "I don't even like vegetables," Megan added, nudging her shoulder gently. The contact was electric; Yoonchae recoiled like she'd been burned, but her grip on the railing loosened just slightly.
Yoonchae's breath shuddered out in a visible cloud, her eyes flicking sideways--first to Megan's shoulder where they'd touched, then up to her face, searching for the joke. But Megan just stared at the water below, her usual grin absent, fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the rail. The silence stretched until Yoonchae's voice emerged, cracked and barely audible: "My sister... she left without saying anything." The wind ate most of it, but Megan caught the way her lips trembled around the words.
Megan's fingers stilled. She turned fully toward Yoonchae then, noticing how the girl's sweater sleeves were frayed at the cuffs, how one sock had a hole near the toe. "Mine talked too much," she said, shrugging when Yoonchae's brows furrowed. "Not my mom--the social worker after. Kept saying shit like 'permanent solution to temporary problems.'" She snorted, kicking a pebble off the bridge. "Like bitch, you ever had mold growing in your cereal?"
A gust of wind whipped between them, lifting Yoonchae's too-long sleeve just enough to reveal a constellation of bruises along her forearm--some yellowed at the edges, others still the deep purple of fresh damage. Megan's breath caught mid-sentence, her gaze locking onto the mottled skin before Yoonchae could yank the fabric back down. The silence between them thickened, the unspoken question hanging heavier than the humidity in the air.
Megan didn’t say anything about the bruises. Instead, she dug into her jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of gum, offering a piece to Yoonchae with a shrug. "Strawberry," she said, as if that explained everything. "Tastes like shit, but it’s something to chew on." Yoonchae hesitated, then took it, her fingers brushing Megan’s--cold and trembling, but alive.
Yoonchae peeled the gum wrapper slowly, her fingers shaking harder now--not from the cold, but from the sudden, terrifying realization that someone had seen her. Really seen her. The strawberry flavor burst bitter-sweet on her tongue, and she nearly gagged, but kept chewing as Megan popped another piece into her own mouth, crunching loudly like she was daring the world to argue with her.
The sun began bleeding pink at the horizon, casting long shadows across the bridge. Megan leaned back against the railing, arms crossed, studying Yoonchae’s profile. "So," she said, "you gonna jump, or you just really into heights?" The question was blunt, almost careless, but Yoonchae caught the way Megan’s sneaker tapped unevenly against the pavement--like she was counting seconds until an answer.
Yoonchae's hands froze mid-chew, the gum suddenly tasteless in her mouth. She stared at Megan, searching for mockery--but found only a raw, jagged honesty in those dark eyes that matched the bruises hidden under her sleeves. "I don't know," she whispered, her voice cracking like thin ice. The admission hung between them, fragile and terrifying.
Megan nodded like she’d expected that answer all along. She peeled another stick of gum, folded it in half, and popped it into her mouth--slowly, deliberately--before speaking again. "Fair enough," she said. "But if you’re gonna do it, do me a favor and wait till sunrise at least. I wanna see your face when you realize strawberry gum actually tastes like ass."
A startled laugh burst from Yoonchae's lips--sharp and sudden, like glass shattering on pavement. The sound seemed to shock her more than Megan, her hands flying to cover her mouth as if she could shove the laughter back inside. Megan grinned, victorious, and nudged her again, harder this time. "There she is," she murmured, watching the first real sliver of sunlight catch the damp tracks on Yoonchae's cheeks.
The river below turned from black to slate gray as dawn crept in, the current smoothing out like it, too, was holding its breath. Yoonchae lowered her hands slowly, her fingers lingering near her throat where a silver chain peeked out from her collar--a tiny pendant shaped like a bird in flight. Megan didn't ask about it. Just reached over and flicked the charm lightly with her thumb. "Bet you five bucks I can spit my gum farther than you," she said.
Yoonchae blinked at the pendant, her sister's last gift still warm from her skin, then at Megan's outstretched palm with its ridiculous wager. The absurdity of it--the gum, the bet, this pink-haired stranger acting like they were just two kids killing time before class--made something loosen in her chest. She spat her gum into her hand with more force than necessary, the sticky blob landing in her palm like a challenge.
Megan's grin widened as she leaned over the railing, exaggerating her windup like a baseball pitcher before launching her gum into the air. It arced in a ridiculous pink trajectory, disappearing into the river below with the tiniest of splashes. Yoonchae hesitated, gripping her own gum tighter--then hurled it with a fierceness that surprised even herself, her arm following through like she was casting off more than just chewed-up sweetness.
The gum vanished into the churning water, and for one dizzying second, Yoonchae felt weightless--like she’d thrown a piece of herself over the edge too. Megan whooped, pumping her fist in the air. "Hell yes, that was a fucking cannonball!" she crowed, spinning to face Yoonchae with wild eyes. The sunrise painted her pink bangs neon, and suddenly Yoonchae noticed the faint scar circling Megan’s throat--a thin, pale line where the belt had bitten deepest.
The scar caught the light like a whispered secret, and Yoonchae's breath hitched--not with pity, but recognition. Her fingers twitched toward her own wrist where jagged crescent marks hid under her sleeves, the kind left by nails digging into skin too hard, too often. Megan followed her gaze and didn’t flinch; just tilted her head, the sunrise turning her smirk translucent. "Bet mine’s uglier," she said, voice light as she traced the scar with her thumb. Yoonchae almost laughed again at the absurd competition, but the sound died when Megan added, quieter, "Survival’s always messy."
Yoonchae's fingers instinctively curled over her hidden scars, the pressure grounding her as Megan's words settled between them like fallen leaves--messy, imperfect, but alive. The river below had turned molten gold in the sunrise, its surface shimmering with a deceptive calm. Megan stretched her arms overhead with an exaggerated yawn, her sweatshirt riding up just enough to reveal another scar--this one jagged and angry, slicing across her hipbone. "Hungry?" she asked casually, like they hadn't just traded silent confessions with gum and scars.
Yoonchae stared at Megan's jagged hip scar, her stomach twisting not from hunger but from the unspoken understanding humming between them--the kind that didn't need words, just wounds. Megan tugged her sweatshirt down with a shrug, but not before Yoonchae noticed the way her fingers lingered over the raised flesh, as if remembering the exact angle of the blade. "There's a 24-hour diner two blocks from here," Megan said, hopping off the railing with a thud that sent a pigeon scattering. "Their pancakes taste like cardboard, but the syrup's decent."
Yoonchae hesitated, her bare toes curling against the cold concrete as Megan’s words hung in the air like an invitation--or a dare. The diner sounded impossibly distant, a world away from the railing’s edge, but Megan was already walking backward, her hands shoved in her pockets, waiting. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of greasy bacon and coffee from somewhere downstream, and Yoonchae’s stomach growled traitorously.
Megan smirked, as if she’d heard it. “Come on, ghost girl,” she said, jerking her chin toward the streetlight flickering to life at the end of the bridge. “Even corpses need pancakes.” The absurdity of it--the way Megan said it like a fact, like she’d seen enough ghosts to know--made Yoonchae’s lips twitch. She glanced once at the river, now dappled with gold, then stepped down onto the sidewalk, her soles sticking slightly to the damp pavement.
The diner’s fluorescent lights buzzed like trapped flies as Yoonchae hovered in the doorway, her bare feet flinching against the sticky linoleum. Megan slid into a booth without looking back, flicking a crumpled straw wrapper at the grizzled cook behind the counter like they were old friends. "Two stacks, extra syrup," she called, then leaned across the table to Yoonchae, her voice dropping. "And if anyone asks, you lost your shoes in a bet."
Yoonchae's fingers dug into the cracked vinyl seat as she slid in opposite Megan, her shoulders hunched against the diner’s stale heat. The table between them was littered with old coffee rings and someone’s half-finished crossword--the word "survivor" scribbled in uneven letters down the margin. Megan snatched a loose sugar packet, tearing it open with her teeth. "So," she said, sprinkling the sugar directly onto her palm before licking it, "you got a place to go after this?"
Yoonchae's fingers curled around her hidden wrist scars again, her throat tightening as she shook her head slightly--not a refusal to answer, but the truth: nowhere left. Megan swallowed the sugar with a sharp sigh, then slid a napkin across the table, scribbling an address in smudged pen. "My shitty studio's got a couch that smells like regret and old tacos," she said, flicking the napkin toward Yoonchae. "But the locks work."
The napkin landed near Yoonchae’s elbow, the address bleeding slightly where Megan’s pen had pressed too hard. Yoonchae stared at it--at the numbers swimming in cheap ink--before finally lifting her gaze to Megan’s face. The pink-haired girl was already tearing open another sugar packet with her teeth, her movements too casual, like she hadn’t just offered a piece of her wrecked world to a stranger. The diner’s fryer hissed behind them, spitting grease into the air as Yoonchae reached for the napkin with trembling fingers.
The napkin stuck to her damp palm as Yoonchae folded it carefully--once, twice--until it was small enough to tuck into her torn sock. Across the table, Megan's knee bounced under the laminate, her sneaker squeaking against the floor with every jitter. Yoonchae watched the rhythmic movement, realizing suddenly that Megan wasn't just restless--she was counting, her lips moving silently against each squeak like she was tallying breaths before a plunge. The waitress slammed two plates of pancakes between them, the syrup pooling at the edges like spilled blood, and Megan snapped back to life with a too-bright grin.
Yoonchae's fork clattered against the plate as she jerked her hand back too quickly, the sound sharp enough to make Megan freeze mid-bite. The bruise stood out livid against her pale skin--four distinct fingerprints and a thumbprint, as if someone had tried to wrench her away from something. Or someone. Megan's chewing slowed, her gaze flicking from the bruise to Yoonchae's face, where a strand of hair clung to her sweat-damp temple. "Fuck," she said around a mouthful of pancake, syrup glistening on her lower lip. "Your family got a thing for leaving marks, or what?"
Yoonchae flinched at the directness, her bruised wrist jerking under the table like a startled animal. The diner's hum of chatter and clinking silverware suddenly felt suffocating--too loud, too bright--but Megan just stabbed another bite of pancake and held it out across the table. "Eat," she said, her voice softer now, syrup dripping onto the Formica between them. "Then we'll burn their house down. Metaphorically. Probably."
Yoonchae stared at the syrup-dripping fork, Megan’s words hanging between them like smoke--part threat, part promise, wholly absurd. The pancake wobbled slightly as Megan wiggled the fork, her expression unreadable except for the way her pulse jumped in her throat. Slowly, Yoonchae leaned forward and took the bite, the sugar hitting her tongue like a spark, the warmth of it foreign after so many cold nights. Megan’s knee stopped bouncing under the table.
The clock above the diner’s greasy fryer blinked 1:03 AM, its red digits bleeding into the haze of cigarette smoke and burnt coffee. Yoonchae prodded at her last congealing bite of pancake, the syrup now a sticky amber shell, while Megan licked stray sugar from her knuckles with the focus of a cat grooming itself. Outside, a garbage truck groaned past, its hydraulic hiss cutting through the diner’s tired hum. Megan’s fork clattered onto her cleaned plate with finality. "Alright, corpse," she announced, stretching her arms until her shoulders popped, "you officially can’t die tonight. I spent my last five bucks on those pancakes."
Yoonchae's lips twitched despite herself, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as Megan dramatically patted her empty pockets. The fluorescent light above them flickered, casting shadows that made the fresh bruises on Yoonchae's wrist look older than they were--like maybe she'd carried them for years instead of hours. Megan's grin faltered as she noticed Yoonchae staring at her own reflection in the greasy window, her dark eyes hollow in the warped glass. "Hey," she said, snapping her fingers inches from Yoonchae's nose, "if you're gonna dissociate, at least do it somewhere with better lighting. This place makes everyone look like a fucking ghost."
Yoonchae exhaled sharply through her nose, her fingers tracing the edge of the syrup-sticky plate. "I still want to," she murmured, so quiet Megan almost missed it over the diner's rattle. The admission slithered out like a confession--not defiant, not desperate, just a fact as plain as the fork in her hand. Megan's knee started bouncing again under the table, her sneaker squeaking twice as fast as before, but her face stayed eerily still, like she'd been waiting for this exact sentence to drop between them.
Megan leaned forward suddenly, her elbows knocking against the sticky tabletop. "Cool," she said, popping the 'l' sound like bubblegum. "But first, you're gonna help me steal a traffic cone." Yoonchae blinked, her brows knitting together, but Megan was already sliding out of the booth, tossing a crumpled five-dollar bill onto the table. "I've got a whole bucket list of stupid shit to do before I die," she continued, jerking her chin toward the door. "And guess what? So do you now."
Yoonchae's fingers hovered inches from Megan's throat, trembling like the last leaf on a winter branch. "Show me how to survive," she whispered, the words barely audible over the diner's grumbling fryer--just as the bell above the door jangled violently. Framed in the entrance stood a man with fists like raw meat, his knuckles split and purpling in a perfect match to the fingerprints circling Yoonchae's wrist.
Megan didn't hesitate. She lunged across the booth, knocking over a syrup bottle that bled sticky amber across the table as she grabbed Yoonchae's sleeve. "Back door," she hissed, dragging her toward the kitchen--just as the man's head snapped toward them, recognition flashing in his bloodshot eyes. The cook barely looked up from his grill when Megan kicked open the emergency exit, the alarm's wail drowning out Yoonchae's choked sob.
The cold night air hit Yoonchae’s face like a slap as Megan yanked her through the alley, their footsteps splashing through puddles of grease and rainwater. Behind them, the man’s roar cut through the diner’s alarm--closer than it should’ve been. Megan’s fingers tightened around Yoonchae’s wrist, not where the bruises were but just above them, as she veered sharply around a dumpster, sending a startled rat skittering. "Keep up, ghost girl," she panted, her pink bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat. "Dead girls don’t get to be slow."
Yoonchae's bare feet burned against the asphalt as she stumbled after Megan, her lungs searing with each ragged breath. The alley walls blurred around her--graffiti-streaked brick and overflowing dumpsters morphing into a tunnel of shadows--until Megan suddenly jerked her sideways into a recessed doorway. Yoonchae collided with Megan's chest, their heartbeats hammering in tandem as the man's footsteps thundered past, his cursing fading into the night.
Megan turned to look at Yoonchae, whose pupils had blown wide as saucers, her lips moving soundlessly around words that wouldn't come. The streetlight above them flickered, illuminating the way Yoonchae's fingers clawed at her own collarbone like she was trying to peel her skin off to breathe. Megan recognized that silent scream--the kind that started in the bones and turned your ribs into a cage. Without hesitation, she grabbed Yoonchae's wrists, pressing their foreheads together hard enough to hurt. "Breathe," she growled, her own breath hot and quick against Yoonchae's lips. "Or I'll kiss you right fucking now."
Yoonchae's gasp hitched between a laugh and a sob, her fingers twitching in Megan's grip as the absurdity of the threat short-circuited her panic. The alley smelled of piss and rotting takeout, but all she could focus on was Megan's nose brushing hers, the strawberry gum still faint on her breath. Somewhere distant, a car alarm wailed in sync with Yoonchae's racing pulse--until Megan exhaled sharply through her teeth, warm and deliberate, giving Yoonchae a rhythm to match.
The streetlight buzzed again, casting Megan's face in jagged stripes of light and shadow as she loosened her grip just enough to slide her thumbs over Yoonchae's pounding wrists. "That's it," she murmured, her voice rough but quieter now, like she was talking to a spooked animal. "Steal all my air if you have to. I've got plenty." Yoonchae's knees buckled, but Megan caught her elbow, steadying her against the chipped brick wall as their shallow breaths tangled in the narrow space between them.
The alley's single bulb flickered again, plunging them into darkness just as Yoonchae felt Megan's fingers slide down to intertwine with hers--sticky with dried syrup and trembling, but holding on like a lifeline. Somewhere beyond the dumpsters, glass shattered, followed by the man's guttural cursing growing fainter as he took a wrong turn. Megan's thumb traced circles over Yoonchae's knuckles, rough and uneven like she was mapping out constellations instead of scars. "Still wanna die?" she whispered, pressing their linked hands against Yoonchae's sternum where her heart jackhammered against bone. "Then do it tomorrow. Tonight, you owe me that fucking traffic cone."
Yoonchae's laughter came out strangled, her forehead dropping onto Megan's shoulder as the adrenaline crash left her limbs liquid. The wool of Megan's sweatshirt scratched her cheek, smelling like pancake syrup and gasoline--a scent that inexplicably made her think of birthday candles snuffed out too soon. Megan let her sag for exactly three seconds before yanking her upright by their still-clasped hands. "Up," she ordered, eyes glinting in the erratic light. "We're hitting a 7-Eleven first. I need Slurpees to wash this taste of near-death out of my mouth."
The convenience store’s neon sign bathed Yoonchae’s bare feet in acidic yellow light as Megan shoved the door open with her hip, the bell jangling like broken laughter. Yoonchae hesitated on the threshold, her torn sock still clutching the napkin with Megan’s address, when Megan grabbed a cheap pair of flip-flops from a display rack and tossed them at her chest. "Wear these unless you want tetanus," she said, already heading toward the freezer section. Yoonchae caught them midair, the plastic straps cold and slightly grimy under her fingertips, but when she slid her feet into them, the absurd normalcy of it made her throat tighten.
The flip-flops slapped against Yoonchae's heels as she trailed Megan through the fluorescent-lit aisles, her toes curling against the cheap plastic with every step. Megan was already elbow-deep in the Slurpee machine, mixing flavors with the focus of a chemist, when the cashier--a pimple-faced kid with headphones--finally noticed Yoonchae's bruised wrist and bare ankles. Before he could speak, Megan slammed two giant cups on the counter, syrup dripping down her fingers. "And these," she announced, grabbing a pack of strawberry gum and a traffic cone-shaped air freshener dangling from a display. "For artistic purposes."
The cashier blinked at the absurd haul but rang it up without comment, his gaze darting nervously between Yoonchae's fading bruises and Megan's scarred throat. Yoonchae's fingers instinctively curled around the flip-flop straps when Megan suddenly leaned across the counter, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Hey kid, wanna earn twenty bucks?" She jerked her thumb toward the actual traffic cone outside. The cashier's eyes widened--not in alarm, but in recognition of a kindred chaos. He slid the keychain back across the counter without a word.
Megan snatched the cone-keychain back with a wink, stuffing it into her pocket as she slapped a crumpled twenty onto the counter--Yoonchae didn't miss how it was the same one Megan had pretended not to have earlier. The cashier pocketed it lightning-fast, nodding toward the exit just as the bell jangled again. Yoonchae's pulse spiked--but it was only an elderly woman shuffling in for cigarettes. Megan grabbed their Slurpees and Yoonchae's elbow in one fluid motion, steering them toward the door with exaggerated casualness, her fingers drumming against Yoonchae's arm in a staccato rhythm that almost hid their shaking.
Outside, the neon-lit parking lot stretched empty except for the lone traffic cone Megan had apparently already marked for theft. Yoonchae clutched her Slurpee, the icy condensation numbing her fingers as Megan crouched beside the cone with theatrical stealth, her pink bangs catching the flickering store sign. "Distract the security camera," she hissed, jerking her chin toward a buzzing floodlight--except there was no camera, just a moth battering itself against the bulb. Yoonchae's lips twitched despite herself as Megan hefted the cone with a grunt, its orange plastic glowing like stolen treasure in the sodium light.
Megan staggered backward with the stolen cone, its hollow base scraping the pavement as she grinned like she'd pulled off a bank heist. Yoonchae watched the absurdity unfold--Megan’s flushed cheeks, the Slurpee dripping onto her sneakers, the way her hands trembled not from fear but exhilaration. The cone wobbled dangerously as Megan attempted to balance it on her head, her triumphant laughter cutting through the humid night like a siren. Yoonchae felt something unfamiliar bubble up in her chest--not the usual numbness, but the electric ache of being alive at 2 AM with a near-stranger and a traffic cone.
Megan's grin faltered as she lowered the traffic cone, her fingers tapping against its gritty surface while her mind raced through possibilities--each one wilder than the last. She could drag Yoonchae to the train yard and spray-paint their names on a boxcar, or break into the community pool at 3 AM just to float on their backs and count satellites. The options fizzed in her chest like the Slurpee bubbles popping against her tongue, but what crystallized wasn’t adrenaline-fueled chaos, but something quieter, sharper: she wanted Yoonchae to remember this night, to feel it etched into her skin louder than any bruise.
Megan shoved the stolen traffic cone into Yoonchae's arms with a grunt, the orange plastic still warm from its vigil under the streetlight. "Park," she announced, like it was a battle order, already marching backward toward the crosswalk with her arms spread wide. "We're going to the park because parks have swings, and swings are scientifically proven to make suicide seem slightly less appealing after midnight." Yoonchae stumbled under the cone's awkward weight, her flip-flops slapping against the pavement as she struggled to keep up--Megan's silhouette cutting through the sodium haze ahead, her pink bangs glowing like a distress beacon.
The park gate groaned when Megan kicked it open, its rusted chain long since snapped by vandals or kids or maybe people like them--those who needed a place to exist after closing time. Yoonchae's breath hitched as Megan vaulted onto the nearest swing, her sneakers sending a shower of wood chips flying when she launched herself backward. "Come on," she panted, already pumping her legs higher, the chains shrieking in protest. Yoonchae hesitated before crouching to set the traffic cone upright like some bizarre monument, its hollow base amplifying the crickets' chirping into a ghostly choir.
Yoonchae gripped the cold chains of the neighboring swing, her knees wobbling as she pushed off--too tentative at first, her flip-flops dragging trenches in the mulch. But Megan’s rising arc beside her became a metronome, each forward kick syncing with Yoonchae’s until their swings creaked in unison, chains groaning like old bones. The night air rushed past Yoonchae’s ears, filling them with a roar that almost drowned out the memories--almost. Megan’s laughter cut through it anyway, jagged and bright as broken glass. "Higher," she demanded, throwing her head back so far her pink bangs brushed the ground on the backswing, "or I’ll push you off myself."
Yoonchae's fingers tightened around the chains as she kicked harder, the swing's momentum lifting her until she could see past the park fences--crumbling rooftops, the neon smear of the 7-Eleven, the distant bridge where they'd met hours ago. Megan whooped beside her, upside down and breathless, her sweatshirt riding up to reveal a fresh scar along her ribs. Yoonchae's stomach swooped as she realized they were swinging high enough to jump, the thought flashing through her like the gleam of traffic cones catching headlights.
The swings reached their apex simultaneously, both girls suspended for a heart-stopping moment where gravity ceased to exist--Yoonchae’s stomach lurching as she saw Megan let go of the chains, arms spread like a daredevil trapeze artist. But instead of flying forward, Megan twisted midair, her sneakers catching Yoonchae’s swing chains with a metallic screech, jerking them both into a chaotic spin. Yoonchae’s scream dissolved into startled laughter as they collided, Megan’s elbow digging into her ribs while the world became a blur of orange cone and pink bangs and stars smearing like wet paint.
The impact sent them tumbling into the wood chips, Yoonchae's breath knocked out as Megan's weight pinned her down--elbows sharp, knees sharper, the stolen traffic cone rolling away like a drunk sentry. Megan's laughter came in gasps against her collarbone, warm and sticky with Slurpee residue, her pink bangs tickling Yoonchae's chin. Somewhere overhead, the swings still swayed on their twisted chains, creaking like old ghosts watching the spectacle. Yoonchae stared up at the smudged stars, her ribs aching from laughter she didn't remember choosing, Megan's fingers suddenly very still where they'd braced against her bruised wrist--not covering the marks, just resting there, pulse to pulse.
Megan rolled off abruptly, landing with a grunt beside her in the mulch, their shoulders brushing as they both caught their breath. The traffic cone had fetched up against a trash can, its orange plastic gleaming under a flickering streetlight like a misplaced sunrise. "Okay," Megan panted, flopping an arm over her eyes, "new rule. If you're gonna die, you gotta do something epic first." Yoonchae turned her head to find Megan already looking at her, her pupils blown wide in the dim light. "Like what?" Yoonchae murmured, the question slipping out before she could stop it, her voice raw from screaming or maybe from breathing too hard after years of holding her breath.
Megan sat up suddenly, wood chips sticking to her sweatshirt as she grabbed Yoonchae's wrist--not the bruised one, but the other, turning it palm-up in her lap. She dug into her pocket and pulled out the stolen traffic cone keychain, pressing it into Yoonchae's hand with a grin that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Like this," she said, folding Yoonchae's fingers around the cheap plastic. "Every time you think about quitting, steal something stupider." Yoonchae's throat tightened as she curled her fist around the keychain, its edges biting into her palm--proof she'd touched something real tonight besides bruises and bridge rails.
The traffic cone keychain sat heavy in Yoonchae’s palm, its ridged edges pressing crescents into her skin--proof she'd touched something ugly and absurd and alive. Megan rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, her pupils dilated in the dim glow of the park’s broken lamplight. "Next time," she said, flicking a wood chip off Yoonchae’s shoulder, "we’re stealing one of those plastic flamingos. The ones with the stupid sunglasses." Yoonchae huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh, but her fingers tightened around the keychain all the same.
Megan dragged Yoonchae into the 24-hour laundromat by the wrist, their stolen traffic cone abandoned outside like a guilty accomplice. The air smelled of detergent and overheated metal, the fluorescent lights buzzing louder than the industrial dryers. Before Yoonchae could protest, Megan shoved a quarter into the nearest machine, yanked open the dented door, and climbed in backwards--her pink bangs sticking to her forehead as she jerked her chin at the adjacent dryer. "Your turn, ghost girl," she panted, knees bumping against the spinning drum. "Scream where no one can hear you break."
Yoonchae hesitated, her fingers brushing the dryer's chipped enamel--still warm from some stranger's abandoned load--before Megan's impatient kick against the drum startled her into motion. She folded herself inside the tight cylinder, knees pressed to her chest, the metal instantly leaching warmth from her bare arms through the thin fabric of her borrowed sweatshirt. Megan slammed the door shut with a grin, plunging them both into darkness just as the dryer rumbled to life, the sudden rotation sending Yoonchae tumbling against the glass with a gasp. Through the porthole, she caught fragmented glimpses of Megan's wild laughter as centrifugal force pinned them both against the spinning walls, their screams swallowed by the mechanical roar.
The world became a kaleidoscope--rotating flashes of Megan's teeth, the flicker of graffiti scrawled across the ceiling, Yoonchae's own reflection warping against the curved glass with each revolution. Her ribs ached from pressing against the drum, but the machine's vibrations traveled up her spine, rattling loose something jagged in her chest. When Megan's dryer screeched to a halt first, Yoonchae saw her crawl out through the porthole, limbs flailing like a newborn deer, before collapsing onto a pile of abandoned laundry in breathless hysterics.
Yoonchae's own dryer shuddered to a stop mid-spin, leaving her slumped against the back panel with static-charged hair sticking to her lips. The door creaked open to reveal Megan's outstretched hand--palm upturned, dotted with crescent marks from gripping the drum too tight. Yoonchae stared at it, then at the lint clinging to Megan's pink bangs like absurd confetti, before dissolving into laughter so sudden it hurt. Megan yanked her out with a grunt, their tangled limbs sending them sprawling onto a mountain of warm towels that smelled of fabric softener and stolen moments.
Yoonchae's laughter dissolved into a hiccup as her face pressed into the towels, the fibers scratching her cheeks raw--but Megan's elbow jabbed her ribs before the silence could curdle. "Up, ghost girl," she muttered, rolling onto her back to stare at the laundromat's water-stained ceiling. "Next stop: vandalizing a parking meter." Yoonchae turned her head just enough to see Megan's fingers drumming against her own sternum, counting beats only she could hear. The dryer's residual heat clung to their clothes as the overhead lights flickered, casting their shadows long and fractured across the tile floor--two broken things pretending to be whole for just one more hour.
The flickering fluorescents made Megan's shadow stretch grotesquely across the laundromat floor as she sprang up suddenly, grabbing Yoonchae's hand and pressing it flat against the still-warm dryer door. "Feel that?" she whispered, her breath hot against Yoonchae's ear. "Still alive. Still fucking hot." Yoonchae's palm tingled from the residual heat--or maybe from the way Megan's fingers lingered over hers, tracing the veins like she was memorizing a roadmap of survival. Outside, dawn began bleeding through the blinds, painting stripes across Megan's smirk as she produced a stolen Sharpie from her pocket with a magician's flourish.
Megan uncapped the Sharpie with her teeth, her spit-slick fingers pressing Yoonchae's palm harder against the dryer's metal surface. The ink bled in jagged lines as she scrawled FUCK TOMORROW across Yoonchae's skin--each letter looping like a noose undone. Yoonchae's breath hitched when Megan suddenly flipped her hand over to write on the inside of her wrist instead, her grip gentler now, the marker's tip skating over thin skin where the veins pulsed blue. Outside, a garbage truck groaned past, its headlights sweeping through the blinds to illuminate Megan's work: a tiny traffic cone drawn right over Yoonchae's oldest scar, its orange ink still glistening.
The Sharpie's chemical sting lingered as Yoonchae stared at the freshly drawn cone--its crude lines straddling the scar tissue like a bridge between then and now. Megan capped the marker with a decisive click, but didn't let go of her wrist, her thumb brushing the ink gently as if checking for smudges. Outside, the garbage truck's hydraulics hissed, drowning out the shaky breath Yoonchae didn't realize she'd been holding. Megan's grin turned feral under the flickering lights as she twisted Yoonchae's arm to examine her handiwork. "There," she said, tapping the doodle with ink-stained fingers. "Now when you look down, you see my terrible art instead of his terrible choices."
Yoonchae's laughter died abruptly as the thought sliced through her like a shard of glass--sharp and sudden, lodging itself beneath her ribs. The warmth of Megan's Sharpie ink still tingled on her wrist, the stupid little traffic cone mocking her from atop the scar. That was the cruelest joke of all: how easily joy could coil around her throat like a noose, reminding her exactly what she stood to lose. The laundromat's fluorescent lights buzzed louder, morphing into the static roar of the bridge's river below, its current whispering you don't deserve this as clearly as if she were still standing on the ledge.
The first fingers of dawn pried through the laundromat's grimy blinds just as Yoonchae's breathing hitched--the fluorescent glow warping into the white-noise rush of the bridge's undertow in her ears. Megan's hand, still gripping her wrist with marker-stained fingers, suddenly felt like the only anchor point in a room tilting sideways. The orange traffic cone drawn on her pulse mocked her: garish, absurd, alive when she'd spent months rehearsing how to be anything but.
Yoonchae's fingers trembled against Megan's ink-stained palm as she whispered it--three syllables that collapsed between them like a bridge giving way: "I'm tired." Not of the running, or the bruises, or even the sharpie smell clinging to her skin. Just tired. Of breathing. Of blinking. Of the way her pulse kept betraying her by hammering onward when she'd begged it to stop months ago. The confession hung in the laundromat's humid air between them, swollen with all the things she couldn't say--that survival wasn't bravery, just exhaustion in disguise.
Megan's grip tightened, her fingers pressing hard enough to leave temporary crescents in Yoonchae's skin--not to restrain, but to remind. Here. You're still here. She didn't gasp or argue or lie that it would get better. Just exhaled slowly through her nose, her pink bangs fluttering with the breath, before nodding once. The acceptance carved something hollow between Yoonchae's ribs--because Megan understood, had stood on that ledge herself, had felt the seductive pull of nothingness whispering easier, quieter, kinder. Her thumb brushed the Sharpie cone on Yoonchae's wrist. "Okay," she murmured, so soft it barely disturbed the silence. "But just don't be alone."
The bridge loomed ahead like a sleeping giant, its metal skeleton glinting under the first real light of dawn--sharp edges softened by the pink haze bleeding across the sky. Megan walked backward in front of Yoonchae, arms spread wide as if balancing on an invisible tightrope, her stolen Sharpie tucked behind one ear. "Rule number whatever," she announced, kicking a pebble into the ravine below, "if you're gonna stare at the void, you gotta make it uncomfortable first." She jerked her chin toward the graffiti-scarred guardrail where they'd met hours earlier, now streaked with bird shit and dew. Yoonchae's flip-flops scuffed against the pavement as she hesitated--the bridge looked different in daylight, less like an ending and more like a place people simply passed through.
Megan's flip-flops slapped against the pavement with deliberate loudness, each step punctuated by the Sharpie jostling behind her ear--a tiny, inky metronome counting down the distance to the bridge. She walked backwards the whole way, her pink bangs catching the dawn light like frayed wiring, never letting Yoonchae's gaze drop lower than her chin. "Ever notice," she called over the rush of early traffic, kicking at a soda can so it skittered into the gutter, "how suicide spots always turn into tourist traps by noon?" She flung her arms wide as they reached the guardrail, her sweatshirt riding up to reveal the fresh Sharpie doodles creeping up her ribs--a lopsided crown, a stick-figure hanging from a noose, YOLO in shaky block letters.
Yoonchae's fingers twitched at her sides before she forced them still, then lifted--slow, deliberate--to brush the frayed edge of Megan's sleeve. "Thank you," she murmured, the words catching like burrs in her throat. Not for the traffic cone, or the dryer spins, or even the Sharpie scars. For the weight of Megan's palm against her pulse when the world tilted. For the way her laughter had carved channels through the numbness. Megan froze mid-gesture, her outstretched arm suspended between them like a bridge with its cables cut.
Megan's outstretched arm trembled suddenly, her fingers curling into a fist mid-air as if trying to catch Yoonchae's words before they could land. The Sharpie behind her ear slipped loose, clattering onto the pavement as her breath hitched--once, twice--before her face crumpled like a paper bag collapsing under its own weight. Tears streaked through the dust on her cheeks, carving canyons through the bravado she'd worn like war paint all night. "Shut up," she choked out, but the command lacked its usual bite, her voice cracking around the edges like old pavement under too much pressure.
Yoonchae's arms wrapped around Megan before she could think--before the sob still trembling in Megan's throat could fully escape. It wasn't graceful; their hips bumped the guardrail, Megan's elbow japped Yoonchae's ribs, and the traffic cone keychain dug into both their palms where their hands tangled between them. But Yoonchae held on, pressing her forehead into Megan's shoulder, breathing in the sharp tang of marker ink and stolen detergent, memorizing the way Megan's heartbeat thudded against her own--a frantic, alive rhythm.
Megan's tears soaked through Yoonchae's borrowed sweatshirt, hot and silent now, her fingers twisting in the fabric at Yoonchae's back like she was trying to anchor them both against the bridge's pull. The sunrise painted the ravine below in pinks too soft for such a jagged place--light catching on broken bottles and the discarded soda can Megan had kicked earlier, rolling gently in the breeze like some pathetic tumbleweed. Yoonchae felt Megan's breath hitch against her collarbone, the damp spot spreading between them as Megan muttered something unintelligible into her shoulder, the words muffled but unmistakably profane.
Yoonchae's fingers tightened around the guardrail, knuckles whitening as she hauled herself up--not gracefully, but with the brutal efficiency of someone who'd practiced this moment in the dark corners of her mind for months. The metal chilled her thighs through the thin fabric of her borrowed sweatshirt, her flip-flops dangling precariously over the ravine below where dawn light gilded the river into a molten ribbon. Megan's grip on her ankle was the only thing anchoring her now, but even that felt tenuous--not because Megan was letting go, but because Yoonchae's body had become a foreign country, its borders dissolving at the edges.
Yoonchae turned--slow, deliberate--to smile at Megan while her grip tightened on the guardrail behind her. It wasn't the brittle smile of someone about to shatter, but the quiet one she'd worn years ago in family photos before the bruises started showing: soft at the corners, her chapped lips parting just enough to show teeth like gravestones. Megan's fingers dug into her ankle hard enough to bruise, her voice cracking around syllables that sounded like please and fuck you and I can't do this again all at once.
Yoonchae leaned down before Megan could react--her lips pressing against Megan's tear-salted ones in a kiss that tasted like stolen detergent and the metallic tang of Sharpie ink. It wasn't gentle; their teeth clacked together, Megan's surprised gasp hot against her tongue, the traffic cone keychain digging into both their palms where their hands still clutched between them. Then Yoonchae pushed off the guardrail backward, her flip-flops slipping on the dew-slick metal as she let gravity take her.
Megan's fingers brushed empty air--catching nothing but the ghost of Yoonchae's warmth as she slipped beyond the guardrail's edge. Time liquified; Megan's scream tore through her throat but made no sound, her outstretched arm hanging suspended like a broken marionette string against the salmon-pink sky. Below, the river swallowed Yoonchae whole with scarcely a ripple, its surface sealing over her as smoothly as a knife sliding between ribs.
Megan's fingers clawed at empty air long after Yoonchae had disappeared beneath the river's surface, her nails scraping against nothing but the indifferent morning breeze. The bridge's guardrail pressed cold against her thighs as she leaned too far over, her body a taut wire strung between horror and the impossible urge to follow--because what kind of punchline was this? To spend the whole night stitching someone back together only to watch them unravel at dawn. Somewhere below, the soda can she'd kicked earlier bobbed in the current, spinning lazily like the universe flipping them off one last time.
Megan's knees hit the pavement with a wet crack that sent pain shooting up her thighs--a distant, irrelevant thing compared to the howl tearing through her chest. Her fingers scrabbled against the guardrail's rusted bolts, nails splintering as she choked on a breath that wouldn't come, her vision swimming with the river's indifferent swirl below. The sob that finally escaped wasn't human; it was the sound of a ribcage splitting open, raw and ragged, echoing off the bridge's steel underbelly like a dying animal caught in a trap.
The river gave up nothing--no flailing limbs, no gasp for air, just the slow drift of Yoonchae’s abandoned flip-flop bobbing near the bank like some cruel afterthought. Megan’s throat burned from screaming, her voice long since shredded into silence, but her hands kept moving on their own--fumbling for the Sharpie still rolling near the guardrail, uncapping it with her teeth like some desperate ritual. She dragged the marker across her own wrist in jagged strokes, etching a lopsided traffic cone over her pulse point, the ink smearing with sweat and river mist as if she could rewrite the morning’s ending through sheer force of vandalism.
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Days passed like molasses dripping from a broken bottle--thick, slow, leaving sticky trails of half-formed thoughts Megan couldn't scrape off her skin. The Sharpie cone on her wrist flaked away in uneven patches, taking bits of her with it each time she scratched at the edges in the shower. She slept curled around Yoonchae’s abandoned flip-flop, its damp underside molding against her cheekbone, the rubber scent fading until all that remained was the ghost of chlorine and river silt.
Megan traced the fading Sharpie lines on her wrist with chipped nails, remembering how Yoonchae’s pulse had fluttered beneath her fingers that night--a trapped bird fighting its cage. The laundromat’s humid air, the dryer’s metallic groan, the way Yoonchae’s laughter had briefly outmuscled the silence in her throat. She’d memorized the exact moment Yoonchae’s eyes widened in the spinning dryer, not from fear but delight, like she’d forgotten her body could still surprise her. Now those eyes were just another thing the river kept.
The flip-flop beside her bed still held the impression of Yoonchae’s toes, the indentations shallower each day as if even inanimate objects were trying to forget. Megan pressed her thumb into the grooves, imagining the warmth that should’ve lingered there. She hated herself for noticing how the right flip-flop had landed upright on the bank--pristine, waiting--while the left one spun in the current like it was still chasing its owner downstream. Somewhere between the bridge and the sea, Yoonchae’s sweatshirt would be bloating with river water, the Sharpie traffic cone on her wrist dissolving into the fish’s ink.
Megan sat on the riverbank for three days before the realization hit her like a gut punch--she couldn't rewrite every tragedy with stolen traffic cones and laundromat rebellion. The Sharpie on her wrist had blurred into a bruise-colored smudge, mirroring the way Yoonchae's absence blurred at the edges of her thoughts, some days sharp as broken glass, others dissolved into the hum of daily life. She traced the outline of the cone absentmindedly, remembering how Yoonchae's pulse had jumped beneath her fingertips, alive and stubborn, right up until it wasn't.
The flip-flop she'd salvaged lay split on her nightstand, its sole cracked from where Yoonchae had dragged it against pavement in desperate laughter. Megan stared at it now, chewing her lip raw, wondering how to mourn a girl who'd existed in stolen moments--no funeral, no body, just the phantom weight of a keychain pressing into her palm during nightmares. She laughed suddenly, harsh and unexpected, at the absurdity of it all: Yoonchae had left behind more Sharpie ink than footprints, more stolen diner napkins than official documents. The world would erase her quietly, like pencil marks on a diner receipt.
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The river didn't care about the Sharpie ink or the stolen cones. It just kept moving, indifferent to the girl it had taken and the girl it had left behind.
Megan stood in the laundromat, watching a dryer spin an empty load. The heat against the glass reminded her of the last time she felt warm. She realized then that she hadn't saved Yoonchae, but she had given her a night where she wasn't alone. In the economy of the broken, maybe that was enough.
She reached into her pocket and felt the traffic cone keychain. It was cheap, plastic, and meaningless to anyone else. But to Megan, it was a heavy, jagged anchor. She stepped out into the morning light, her pink hair faded and her heart a constellation of scars, carrying the weight of a girl who had finally found her peace, even if it was at the bottom of a hungry river.
The sun rose, bright and unapologetic, and for a second, the pavement looked almost like gold.
“You dumbass,” Megan whispered, “you had to just jump and leave me all alone.”
“And yet I still love you.”