Page 17 of Played
Why am I afraid?
I don't have an answer. Just this sick feeling in my gut that knows something's wrong, something's been wrong for months, but I keep smiling through it because the alternative—being alone, being vulnerable, being the one left behind again—terrifies me more than whatever this is becoming.
The bedroom door stays closed.
I curl back onto the couch, pulling his shirt tighter around me like armor.
I smooth down the hot pink top, admiring how the neon shade pops against the plaid pants. Found these beauties atSecond Chanceslast week—black and pink plaid with perfect fit through the hips. Three bucks. Score of the century.
Daniel catches me at the door. "Is that what you're wearing to the police station?"
"Yeah. Why?"
His gaze travels from my cropped pink top down to my Doc Martens. "It's ridiculous. You need something more conservative."
Heat crawls up my neck. "What's wrong with it?"
"Liza." He sighs like I'm a toddler who doesn't understand why we don't eat crayons. "You're giving a witness statement, not going clubbing."
My confidence wavers. Maybe he's right. Maybe I look stupid. Maybe the cops won't take me seriously if I show up looking like a highlighter exploded on me.
"Fine." The word tastes bitter.
He leads me back to the bedroom, pulls out a navy blouse and plain beige trousers I've worn maybe twice. Boring. Safe. Completely not me.
I change while he watches, each button slipping into place like a tiny surrender.
"Much better." He kisses my forehead. "And seriously, why do you insist on buying filthy used clothes that other people have already worn?"
"They're not filthy. They're vintage."
"They're someone's garbage."
"It's thrifting, Daniel. It's fun. The thrill of the find, you know? Like treasure hunting." My voice picks up speed, defending something I shouldn't have to defend. "And before I met you, it wasn't just fun—it was a necessity. I couldn't afford—"
"I'll pay for decent clothes." He cuts through my explanation like scissors through ribbon. "New clothes. From actual stores. If you promise to never walk into a thrift store again."
The offer hangs there. Shiny. Controlling. Wrong.
"I like thrift stores."
"Promise me."
I grab my bag instead of answering, pushing past him toward the door.
The hallway echoes with my footsteps—angry, sharp clicks against tile.
"Decent clothes," I mutter, hitting the elevator button twice. "Like I'm some charity case he's dressing up."
The elevator dings.
"Three-dollar pants versus his approval. What a bargain."
Doors slide open.
"And what the hell is wrong with pink anyway? Pink's a perfectly legitimate color for witness statements."
I step inside, catch my reflection in the mirrored wall.
