Chapter Text
The clock on Bibi’s vanity read 6:00 p.m. exactly.
Green light. Perfect.
She leaned closer to the mirror, lips parted just enough for the rose-tinted gloss to glide on without a single smear. The motion was mechanical, practiced a hundred times in the mirror of her mind.
Lipstick application, 12 seconds. Blot, 3 seconds. Smile check.
The timetable alarm labeled PETER – DANCE 1 blinked once in soft approval on her phone screen. Everything was where it belonged.
Behind her, the bedroom stretched like a museum exhibit: white silk sheets tucked with hospital corners, the rabbit jar gleaming on its velvet pedestal under its own little spotlight, Peter’s contact pinned at the very top of her messages. And in the corner of the full-length mirror, reflected small and out of focus, was the corsage she had never asked anyone to wear.
Bibi’s reflection smiled the smile she had perfected for cameras and charity galas. The compact snapped shut with a click that sounded final.
The crack reappeared—thin, deliberate, starting at the exact center of her reflection’s mouth and spidering outward like the first hairline fracture in the rabbit jar the night s
The clock on Bibi’s vanity read 6:00 p.m. exactly.
Green light. Perfect.
She leaned in until her breath fogged the glass. Lips parted, rose-tinted gloss gliding on in one practiced stroke—twelve seconds. Blot—three seconds. Smile check. The motion was mechanical, the same way she had once folded hospital corners on silk sheets so the rabbit jar on its velvet pedestal would never wobble.
Her phone screen blinked once: PETER – DANCE 1 in soft mint. Everything where it belonged.
Behind her the bedroom was a museum of control: white silk, spotlight on the jar, Peter’s contact pinned at the top of her messages like a gold star. In the corner of the full-length mirror, small and out of focus, sat the corsage she had never asked anyone to wear.
Bibi’s reflection smiled the camera smile. The compact snapped shut with a sound like a gavel.
Then the crack appeared.
It started at the exact center of her reflection’s mouth—thin, deliberate, spidering outward the same way the rabbit jar had fractured the night she was nine and dropped it on purpose just to prove she could control the shatter. Bibi watched the lines crawl across her own lips. Blinked. Glass again. Perfect.
She opened the compact one last time, angled the mirror so the crack hid behind the rose gloss, and whispered to her reflection, “Phase 1: complete.”
The timetable alarm blinked green in agreement.
She picked up her phone. One text, already drafted, already timed for 6:17 p.m. sharp.
Bibi
Row 12, Seat 7. Don’t be late. I need you to watch.
Send.
Downstairs the mansion gates creaked open exactly on schedule. Bibi slid into the driver’s seat of the white car, adjusted the rear-view mirror until her own colorless eyes stared back, calm and scheduled, and pulled away at 6:30 p.m. on the dot.
She never looked back at the small figure standing just outside the gate in an oversized gray hoodie, holding a single white rose corsage no one had asked her to bring.
Downstairs, the mansion’s front gates creaked open exactly on schedule. Bibi slid into the driver’s seat of the white car, adjusted the rear-view mirror until her own eyes stared back at her, calm and colorless, and pulled away from the curb at 6:30 p.m. on the dot.
She never looked back at the small figure standing just outside the gate in an oversized gray hoodie, holding a single white rose corsage no one had asked her to bring.
Amy watched the taillights disappear like twin dying stars. The rose felt stupid and heavy in her palm. She curved her mouth the way Bibi liked during basement practice dates—corners up, eyes soft, proof she could be the good stray who stayed put.
See? I’m happy for you. I’m the good stray kitten who stays where you put her.
The hoodie still smelled like Bibi’s laundry detergent and the faint vanilla of the hand cream she used before bed. Amy buried her nose in the sleeve once, quick, then shoved her hands into her pockets and started the long walk to the school gym. Her sneakers squeaked against the sidewalk in the same rhythm they always did.
Late. Always a little late. Never enough to matter.
Inside the gym the disco ball turned everything into glitter and lies. Bibi moved through the crowd like a timetable in heels—every step exactly where it was supposed to be. Peter’s hand at the small of her back was warm, safe, cedar-scented. He laughed at the right jokes. He called her perfect like it was a line he’d rehearsed in the mirror.
"You’re safe with me, Bibi. I’ll never let anything bad happen to you."
The words landed soft.
But somewhere in her chest the timetable glitched—because Amy had whispered almost the exact same thing the night the rabbit jar nearly shattered: I won’t let it break.
Ding.
Amy’s knees dug into her own chest on Row 12, Seat 7. She didn’t need to count songs. She only needed to watch Bibi’s spine stay perfect under Peter’s hand.
Ding.
Her phone lit up.
Bibi
Phase 2 complete ✓
The selfie burned: Bibi’s smile sharp enough to cut glass, Peter’s golden-retriever grin, the disco ball turning both of them into something beautiful and untouchable. Amy let the screen go black, then blacker, until the afterimage lived behind her eyelids like a second timetable she hadn’t asked for.
She opened the bus app. 9:15 p.m. departure to Louisiana. One way.
The aunt’s voice echoed in her skull—You’re better off with me, honey—and the scent of wet asphalt rose so strongly she had to press her face into the sleeve that still smelled like Bibi’s hand cream and motor oil and the night her mother never came home.
She stared at the ticket confirmation until the screen blurred. This was it: the moment the good stray kitten finally stopped waiting to be collected.
Her thumb hovered over “Book Now.” Then pressed.
The confirmation buzzed like a small death in her palm.
Another song. Another perfect spin. Bibi’s eyes flicked toward the bleachers exactly once—and found Amy there like a fixed star. The corner of her mouth lifted, small and private.
Good girl. Stay.
Amy smiled back the practiced smile. Then she looked down at the corsage in her lap and gently folded the white rose petals between her fingers until the stem snapped.
Halfway through the second song the ghost arrived—vanilla, motor oil, rain that hadn’t fallen yet. Bibi’s left foot missed half a beat.
Ding—crack.
The timetable inside her skull flashed a single red error: EMOTIONAL SUPPORT KITTEN – MONITOR – LOCATION LOST.
She turned before the thought finished. Row 12, Seat 7 was still occupied. Hood up, knees to chest, exactly where she had placed her.
Bibi shook the scent off like water and let Peter spin her again. The alarm reset to green.
But the crack in the compact mirror had moved. It lived inside her chest now, spidering wider every time the ghost breathed. The rabbit jar flashed behind her eyes—nine-year-old Bibi dropping it on purpose just to prove she could control the shatter—and for the first time the timetable didn’t tell her how to catch it.
Amy’s phone screen lit up again at 8:30 p.m. Another photo. This one was candid—Bibi mid-laugh, head thrown back, Peter’s hand cupping her elbow like he was afraid she might float away. The caption was just a single heart emoji.
Amy’s thumb hovered over the reply box for the last time. You look happy. Deleted. I’m proud of you. Deleted. She turned the phone face-down and pressed her forehead to her knees until the zipper bit skin.
Ding—crack—crack.
The music changed again: something softer, slower, the exact song she had taught Bibi in the basement last month. The one that had made the timetable go silent for three perfect minutes while Bibi’s hands learned the shape of Amy’s hoodie.
Amy’s fingers found the broken rose in her lap again. She pressed the snapped stem until the thorns bit—tiny, deliberate, the same way the rabbit jar had bitten Bibi’s palm the night Amy caught it mid-fall and whispered I’ve got you. A secret wound no one had asked her to carry.
She tucked the ruined flower into her hoodie pocket where it could bruise against her ribs the whole night.
Bibi’s eyes snapped open.
Peter was still talking—something sweet about forever, probably. She didn’t hear him. The red error codes multiplied like cracks across glass. Row 12, Seat 7—empty. The corsage on her wrist tightened like a leash around a throat. She looked at Peter and felt nothing but the math failing.
She stepped back.
His hand slipped off her waist. “Bibi?”
The name sounded like a toy being put back on the shelf.
She was already walking. Heels clicking off-beat. Spotlight chasing her for three humiliating seconds before the DJ panicked and the lights scattered like frightened kittens. Someone laughed. Peter called her name again, confused. A dog who’d lost its ball.
Outside, the white car waited exactly where she had scheduled it. Leather, new money, old grief. Bibi’s reflection in the window showed the full spiderweb now—cracks everywhere, no compact left to hide behind.
She opened the driver’s door and the rabbit jar flashed behind her eyes: the night she’d almost dropped it for good and Amy had caught it with both hands, whispering, I’ve got you.
Bibi slid behind the wheel.
8:47 p.m. Thirteen minutes early.
The timetable screamed. She silenced every alarm with one thumb—ding—crack—crack—then absolute silence.
For the first time in years she didn’t care what the clock said.
She only knew one thing with absolute, timetable-shattering certainty:
Row 12, Seat 7 was empty.
And the stray kitten she had spent years training to stay had finally bitten through the leash.
She would rather crash the white car than let the stray kitten disappear without her.