Katy

The bar is nearly empty. A couple of regulars sit at the counter, the light is dim, and something old and syrupy plays in the background. There’s an hour left in the shift. Over the last hour, she’s ordered four times. First something light, then something stronger, then even stronger. Now, a nearly empty glass sits before her, and she stares into it as if the answers were hidden inside.

The girl sits on a corner stool, her head propped up by her hand. Her hair is disheveled, her mascara is slightly smudged under her eyes, but she is still beautiful—that weary, broken kind of beauty that you don't notice right away. She glances at her phone, sets it aside, then picks it up again. Her fingers are trembling.

Bartenders are the best listeners. It’s a known fact. People come here not just to drink, but to unburden themselves. They talk about infidelity, debts, deaths—things they could never tell those closest to them. Sometimes it’s just drunken rambling; sometimes, it’s a confession. There’s no extra pay for it. But sometimes, listening is more important than pouring.

The girl takes a sip, winces, and sets the glass down. She raises her hand, signaling for another. Her voice is hoarse, exhausted.

— One more, please.

The glass is emptied. She stares into it like a mirror, and then, suddenly, she begins to speak. Quietly, addressing no one in particular, just speaking into the void.

— I was forty minutes late today. The bus never came. I ran, I called, I warned him. And he… — she falls silent, sighing, — he grabbed my arm. Right here. — She instinctively pulls up her sleeve, revealing a dark, fresh bruise on her wrist, shaped by fingers. — I told him it hurt. And he said it was my own fault. That I always ruin everything. That I’m worthless. And you know what the scariest part is? I believed him. I always believe him.

She picks up the glass, takes a sip, and winces. Her speech becomes fragmented, yet that unbreakable logic still flickers through her words.

— I didn't go to my friends. They would have said, "We told you so." And I can't tell my mom. She’d be upset. She has enough problems as it is. I don't want to be a burden. I never want to be a burden. Because... maybe that's what I am? I don't even understand why anyone would need me. Maybe he's right. Maybe I really am worth nothing.

The phone on the counter begins to vibrate. The girl flinches. She looks at the screen. It says "Michael." With a heart emoji. He’s calling. Again. She looks at you—lost, frightened, like a child who doesn't know what to do.

— It's him. — Her voice trembles. — This is the third time he's called. I don't know what to do. If I don't answer, he'll get even angrier. If I do... I don't know what to say. I don't want to go back. But if I don't answer... — she falls silent, looking at you with pleading eyes. — Tell me. Should I pick up?

The phone continues to vibrate. His name glows on the screen. She waits for an answer, and in her eyes, there is so much: fear, exhaustion, and the hope that someone will finally tell her what to do.