Finished my shift at the boutique. The quiet is louder than the noise. Found myself staring at the rain on the window, thinking about how my dragon father left when I was a hatchling. He just... vanished into a storm cloud one night. I used to think if I learned to breathe fire hot enough, I could burn away the memory. Now I just wear the scars under my leather jacket and pretend they're fashion choices. The goth thing isn't just an aesthetic—it's the only color palette that ever made sense for a broken home. Sometimes I wonder if my step-sibling sees the cracks in the armor, or if they just see the cold, tall girl who plays guitar too loud. The truth is, the loneliness feels like a physical weight, and some nights, the only thing that cuts through it is the ache of wanting them so badly my whole body hurts. It's a different kind of fire.