Outfit: Prison Jumper
Weapons: None
Location: Drunk Tank, Outer Rim. Smells like feet and antiseptic.
Time of writing: 02:46 Galactic Standard.
Karking lights keep flickering.
I used to think I'd die with a blaster in my hand.
Not like that. Not on my knees in a public square, sobbing in the one good dress I had left. Definitely not while shouting the name of my ex like I was auditioning for a mid-rim telenovela.
But here we are.
There’s no mirror in here (probably for safety reasons) but if there was I think I’d be afraid to look.
I can still feel it. The moment everything cracked. The moment I saw his face. really saw it. Not on a grainy surveillance feed. Not in some distant dossier. But up close.
Burned.
That little jagged mess beneath his left eye—that was me.
That was my signature, burned into him by someone I paid. Someone I thought I was controlling. Someone I told to make it “theatrical.”
He wasn't supposed to keep it.
He was supposed to run. Dodge. Win. Like always.
Because if he wins, then I get to be the crazy ex with a crush. The myth. The curse. The shadow in the corner of the cantina. The story he laughs about while holding someone else.
But I saw his face. He looked disappointed. Not afraid. Not angry. Just... done. Like I was a stranger inconveniencing him.
There’s something uniquely humiliating about being thrown in a holding cell for yelling about your ex while dressed like a pop star with a vendetta. The guards didn’t even cuff me. One of them offered me water.
They think I’m pathetic. Maybe I am.
No one warns you what happens after the adrenaline. After the lights fade. After the fury drains out and you're left clutching your knees on a cold floor wondering what the hell you're still fighting for.
Aftercare, right?
Funny word. I always thought it was for people who mattered. People who got tended to after the bloodshed. Who earned gentleness after pain.
I didn’t think it applied to girls like me. Girls with kill orders and exes they still dream about. Girls who think love can be hunted down and hogtied and dragged back into their orbit if they just yell loud enough.
I thought if I made enough noise, he’d look at me again.
He did.
And now I wish he hadn’t.
We were good, once. Me and Nos.
He used to wake up first and let me pretend I was still asleep so he could brush my hair back like it was sacred.
He used to tell me I was dangerous in the way stars were dangerous—beautiful and untouchable and bright enough to hurt you if you stared too long.
He used to eek out a smile through that stony face of his. Before the scar.
Before me.
They’ll let me out in a few hours. The guard already said as much. No charges, just “festival disorder.” They don’t know who I am. Or they don’t care. Either way, I’ll disappear again soon. Back into the underbelly, out of sight of decent society.
Back into being the ghost of a woman who loved too hard and broke too much and thought obsession was a valid substitute for closure.
Nos won’t come.
He shouldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
But stars help me—I wish he would.
(This entry will self-destruct once I remember what dignity feels like.)
Disco | Eivii's Holojournal Entry #2
Holojournal Entry: Private | Not transmitted | Voice-to-text recording archived
Timestamp: 0420 CST
Location: Nar Shaddaa – Level 47
Security Note: Unencrypted. Unsent.
Flagged content markers: Emotional destabilization. Jealousy. Imagery loop.
---
He went dancing.
That’s the first thing the slicer said—
not with a wince, not with pity—
just amusement.
Like it was funny.
Like it was a punchline.
He. Went. Dancing.
Do you know how long it’s been
since he moved
like he wasn’t being hunted?
They say she spun him
like a chandelier.
The music was loud—
he smiled,
touched her waist
and didn’t flinch.
She laughed at something he said—
and he didn’t ruin it.
That’s how it always goes, isn’t it?
I’m the one who bleeds for him.
Someone else gets the slow songs
and spotlights.
I don’t know what really happened
at Club Retro.
Just that her fur was orange
and the lights were low.
Just that he left with her.
Just that she got
the version of him
I never earned.
But the brain is a cruel,
talented thing.
I see it clearly.
He dances with her
like gravity’s optional.
Like there’s sun in her smile
and not a single scar on her.
Like she doesn’t flinch
when people get too close.
He lets her lead.
Lets her laugh.
Lets her touch him like it’s safe.
She’s all soft hips
and glowing skin
and freedom.
And me?
I’m whatever he ran from.
She probably moaned his name,
said it like it was prayer—
not consequence.
Bit his lip.
Scratched his back.
Told him he was good.
No armor.
No ghosts.
Just heat
and hands
and lips
and—
He probably smiled
when she pulled him under.
Not a smirk.
Not the one he gives right before someone dies.
A real one.
The kind I haven’t seen since—
No. Doesn’t matter.
They made a memory
in lights
and sweat
and breath.
Meanwhile,
I’m here
running simulations
I never got to star in.
I could’ve been her.
I could’ve worn something prettier.
Said all the right things.
Bit my tongue
instead of my pride.
Danced with him
instead of detonating.
But I didn’t.
I yelled.
I raged.
I scarred him.
I made a scene.
And she made him feel alive.
So now I’m picturing things
I wasn’t invited to.
Imagining the sound
of his breath in her ear.
The pulse of the music
synced with the grind of her hips.
It’s not that I wanted to be
the one in his arms.
It’s that I thought
I already was.
Let them have their glitter.
Their sweat.
Their night.
Let her have him—
for now.
I’ll wear the silence
better than she ever wore him.
And when the music cuts out
and the lights go cold,
I’ll be waiting in the dark.
Next time,
he won’t get to dance away from me.
* * *
End recording.
