They would see her laughing, each chortle unlike the first, and every moment conserved. City lights would illuminate her eyes even after masking the stars which she so craved. But she would not complain. No, she would continue to smile.
And when she sang, the sound would loom, leaving each person with memories of a better day. A better time. A better world. She would sing as if the words meant more than merely words, and though she could not see the meaning, she would sing them nonetheless as a martyr might. Every ache would expend. Every crook would unbend. Every thought would be on her and she would think of them tirelessly.
They would see her when she bloomed.
She would see herself wither.
As the nights drew on, she would raise her glass, drain the last few drops, and wave goodbye with the sweetest of expressions. As she took each breath, the retreating steps confirmed sharp exhales. Panicked immobility. When she was alone, the lights would die and the colour would drain as she drained herself by filling her cup, wondering how much more she could take before it consumed her too.
The bottom of a scotch bottle kissed her goodnight as it did every night, and though she could never explain the allure of a fleeting lover, she would show it on her skin and the bruised circles under her eyes. The only thing she was ever able to keep was the cupboards full of gin. The whiskey on her nightstand.
And she was alone.
But they never saw her then. They never saw when she cried.
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