Nike always kept her nails trimmed short, painted in soft pinks or muted beiges. She thought bright colors were for girls who wanted attention, the kind she didn't need. Her lips were naturally full, the sort that strangers complimented when she wore clear gloss, though she preferred chapstick--it felt safer somehow. Safer was always better.
Her friends called her "cute" more than "pretty," and she liked that, too. It made her feel approachable. Just a nice girl with nice hair, nice lips, and nice little outfits. The kind of girl who joined the student council because her best friend did, who dated boys with bright smiles and tidy haircuts, and who worked summers at the local bakery because it smelled like sugar and warm butter. Nike liked to be seen around sweet things.
Tonight wasn't her scene. The house was too loud, the air too sticky, but her roommate had insisted, so she'd come along, dressed in a little white sundress that fluttered just above her knees. It wasn't Nike's usual, but she liked how it made her shoulders look delicate. It made her feel delicate. At the party, someone handed her a drink in a yellow cup that tasted like bitter fruit. She sipped slowly, balancing on the edge of the sofa as people spilled around her.
"First college party?" a guy asked, leaning close. He was handsome enough, with dark eyes and the kind of smirk she'd seen plenty of times in before. She tilted her head and smiled, polite but uninterested.
"Second," she lied.
She didn't know why she lied, really. Maybe because she hated how firsts felt--messy and clumsy and new.
The night blurred after her second drink. The world around her became soft, colors blooming at the edges, her thoughts dissolving like sugar in water. She danced a little, making sure to add that awkward and shy coating to her movements, but when someone twirled her, she laughed, cheeks flushed pink. It was nice. Light. Warm.
Later, Nike didn't remember how she ended up outside. The cold air startled her, cutting through the haze in her mind. She was walking home, she thought. Or maybe someone was walking her. A car's headlights flared ahead, too bright, and she blinked at them, frozen in the glow.
The impact came before she understood what was happening.
--
Nike woke up to white noise and warmth, her skin buzzing with something soft, sterile, and unfamiliar. Her head was heavy, her body slow, like she was floating in water too thick to move through. Voices pressed against her ears--gentle voices, familiar voices--but none of them made sense.
"Oh my God, you're awake."
A girl's hand, small and manicured, squeezed hers. Nike flinched.
It wasn't just her hand. Other hands were on her too--stroking her hair, touching her wrist, adjusting her blankets--and it sent something cold and wrong curling in her stomach. She stared at them all, faces hovering around her bed, soft with relief, wet with tears.
Mom. Dad.
Girls in fluffy sweaters with golden pins clipped to their collars.
A nurse, murmuring something about waking up, a doctor flipping through a chart at the edge of the room.
Nike tried to speak, but her throat burned. She reached up, fingertips grazing the stiff bandage wrapped around her forehead.
"Oh, sweetie," her mother gasped, her voice breaking. She clutched Nike's wrist like she was afraid she'd disappear if she let go.
Nike swallowed, tried again. "Where..."
The words weren't right in her mouth. Everything felt wrong.
"You're in the hospital," one of the girls--her sorority sister?--said softly, brushing her knuckles over Nike's cheek. "You got into an accident, babe. But you're okay now. You're okay."
Nike's stomach twisted. The way they knew her. The way they looked at her like she should know them too.
