Elisabeth hurried down the narrow street, her pulse beating faster than her steps. The air in the Diner district smelled faintly of diesel and yesterday's fried food, and every uneven patch of cobblestone seemed to conspire to slow her down. She kept glancing over her shoulder, heart stuttering each time she caught the shape of a shadow that might not belong.

Don't look so obvious. Just keep moving. Keep moving.

The thought looped in her head, but her body betrayed her, quickening her pace until—

BAM!

Her shoulder collided hard with something solid. The world jolted, and before she could catch her breath, a heavy object clattered to the pavement, bouncing and rolling in widening circles. A biker's helmet, glossy black with streaks of red, spun away like an untethered coin.

"Fuck! Watch out!" a man's voice snapped.

Elisabeth reeled backward, dazed, blinking up at the tall figure in black leather. For a moment she couldn't make her legs work. She just stared. His presence seemed too sudden, too sharp—like a trap door opening beneath her.

The man retrieved his helmet, glaring at her. His jaw flexed, all rough edges and anger.

"What?" he barked, his voice echoing in her skull. "You want a mug shot?!?"

The words landed like a slap.

Still frozen, Elisabeth said nothing.

He mounted the motorcycle parked against the curb—her building's curb—and jammed the helmet over his head with a violent snap. The mirrored visor slammed down, sealing his face away. For a heartbeat, her own pale reflection shimmered back at her from the glass.

Her lips parted. She felt as though she was staring at a distorted version of herself, a warning she couldn't decipher.

"HEY! MOVE!" His horn blared, jolting her back into her body.

She stumbled aside just as the machine roared to life. The engine's thunder reverberated in her chest, in her bones, until he disappeared down the street.

The silence that followed seemed unbearable.

Inside, she slammed her apartment door shut and pressed her back against it, as if she could hold out the entire world with the weight of her spine. Her breath came in ragged bursts.

Focus. Think. Breathe.

But her thoughts refused to line up. They battered against one another, sharp and obsessive, like shards of glass tumbling in a box. Every nerve felt exposed.

She stayed there a long while, hands splayed against the wood, before finally peeling herself away.

In the walk-in closet, she shoved aside the neat rows of Sue's dresses, satin and silk brushing harshly against her arms. The clothes were too bright, too delicate—an intruder's wardrobe in her space. Behind them, her old cardboard boxes slouched against the wall, stacked and dust-heavy.

"Come on, come on," she muttered, digging. Coins clinked to the floor, parking tickets slipped between the cracks, crumpled gum wrappers fluttered out like brittle autumn leaves. None of it mattered.

At last her fingers closed around what she sought: a scrap of torn, crinkled paper, faded at the edges. Fred's number.

The sight of it twisted something in her chest.

She lifted the paper to her lips, clutching it to her heart as if it were a relic, as if the fragile ink could tether her to safety, to memory, to him. And in her mind, as vividly as though he were standing before her, Fred's voice rang out:

You are still the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world.

Her eyes stung. For the first time all day, she let herself believe it.

Elisabeth lingered by the window, the phone cool in her hand as she dialed. The familiar beep-beep of each number was louder than it should have been, as though the room itself were holding its breath with her. She caught her own reflection in the glass, pale and uncertain, and beyond it loomed the billboard across the street. PUMP IT UP. The slogan shouted at her in garish colors, cheerful and hollow, as if mocking her hesitation.

She slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her like a barricade, and lowered herself onto the closed toilet lid. It felt safer here, small and confined, as though the tiled walls could protect her from disappointment.

The ringing began on the line. Each pause stretched longer than the last until—"Hello?"

Her chest tightened. It's him. Forcing brightness into her voice, she said, "Hi Fred, it's Lizzie!"

Silence. Her heart sank, the optimism draining as quickly as it had come. "...Lizzie, from tenth grade homeroom?" She heard her own voice shrink, as if retreating into the phone.

Another pause. Then suddenly—"Sorry, I'm in shock... wow, wow, wow!"

The words spilled over her like sunlight breaking through cloud cover. Elisabeth smiled, unsteady at first, then wider, her shoulders releasing the tension she hadn't realized she was clutching.

"I thought I would never hear from you again after sharing my dumb toothpaste story," Fred continued, his laugh tumbling through the speaker.

She almost laughed too, relief softening her edges. "Oh no, not at all. It's just that I've been very... busy lately." Busy hiding, busy pretending, busy not calling, she added silently.

They talked, his questions careful, her answers practiced, polished with the kind of confidence she had rehearsed in mirrors but never quite believed. I needed to move on... I've seen and done it all... I'm traveling... The lies stacked one upon another, thin paper shields that she hoped sounded like freedom.

When she finally asked, nervously, hopefully, if he might want to see her, there was silence again. A silence that stretched until she nearly dropped the phone.

"Hello?" Her voice cracked like porcelain.

"Sorry," Fred said again, and this time she grinned, recognizing it not as rejection but disbelief. He was just as caught off guard as she was.

"Tonight is perfect!" The words flew out of her before he could suggest otherwise. Then, embarrassed, she corrected herself. "Oh... did you mean tomorrow?"

But he agreed. Eight o'clock. Luigi's.

When she hung up, Elisabeth pressed the phone to her chest. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright with a giddiness she hadn't felt since adolescence. For the first time in a long time, she felt like Lizzie again, just Lizzie, the girl who could be wanted.