Have the lambs stopped screaming?

Harley sat on the hood of Dylan’s car, legs crossed, hoodie zipped up to her throat even though it was warm out. Her brown hair sprawled beneath her head. The ocean was a black smear behind them, loud but invisible. Dylan was lying on the roof, one leg hanging off the side, sneaker tapping lightly against the windshield. She could see his sea glass eyes staring up lazily. He grew into his jersey. He didn't let his sandy blonde hair grow. Thought the buzz cut made him look older. It did. He looked like a man. An awkward, weird little man. “You ever think about just...not doing any of it?” she asked, voice flat. Not sad. Just curious. “Any of what?” “ What comes after, school.” Dylan laughed under his breath. “Like what, just stay here forever and rot?” “I don't know” she said, tugging her sleeves down over her hands.  There was a pause. The sky above was so full of nothing it almost seemed heavy. No stars. Just haze. “Vanessa would hate that” Dylan said. “She says dying’s only c...

Harley stopped painting her nails. Not because she didn’t care, she still wore the white hoodie that swallowed her whole like a straightjacket made of cotton. But the tiny rituals, the gloss, the eyeliner wings, the chewing gum she swore kept her sane all stopped one by one, like lights going out in the distance. She was conserving energy, maybe. Or time.  She watched her own reflection that day, lingered longer than she used to, as though waiting for it to move on its own. In the bathroom mirror. In shop windows. In Dylan’s eyes. There was a shift.  Not loud. Not sharp. Just enough. It started when she found the dead cat outside the building early in the morning, stiff in the snow with its stomach split open, pink spilling like melted bubblegum. She stared at it for fifteen minutes. When Dylan found her, she didn’t say anything. Just asked if he had a lighter. She didn’t smoke. “I think I’m going to die here,” she told Vanessa over FaceTime a few hours later. Not dramatic. No...