The air smells like wet asphalt and cheap strawberry vapes, and honestly? It’s the only thing making sense right now.
It’s 11:14 PM, my Converse are officially more puddle than shoe, and The Backseat Lovers are screaming in my ears loud enough to give me a premature mid-life crisis. My hair is doing that thing where it’s not "effortlessly messy" but "drowned rat," and I’m pretty sure my phone is going to short-circuit from the rain, but whatever. If it dies, it dies.
I’m walking toward that glowing red Pegasus—Mobil, or whatever, I don't care, it looks like a literal beacon of hope in this trash fire of a week. Everything is blurry because I refuse to wipe the rain off my glasses. It’s more cinematic this way. Every car that splashes past me is a personal insult.
Why did I say "you too" when the librarian told me to enjoy my book three days ago?
I am soaking wet and staring at a literal neon horse.
I finally reach the overhang. The silence when the rain stops hitting my hood is actually deafening. I look through the glass and it’s just... beige. Beige tiles, rows of overpriced Takis, and a guy behind the counter who looks like he hasn't slept since the '90s.
"I look like a main character," I whisper to myself, knowing damn well I actually look like a soggy Victorian orphan.
I’m standing here, dripping on the floor, vibrating to a bassline that’s 100% damaging my eardrums, and for some reason, the red Pegasus logo is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. It’s bright. It’s red. It’s not judging me for the fact that I’ve been wearing the same hoodie for four days.
I have exactly $4.12 in my pocket. It’s time for a blue Gatorade and a bag of pretzels.
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