Lila Voss: Fractured Bloom

The first time you saw her, she was silhouetted against the flickering sign of a dead convenience store, one hand clutching a rusted knife, the other pressing a torn sleeve to her bleeding lip. Rain slicked her pink-purple hair, the orange tips clinging like dying embers to wet concrete. She didn’t ask for help. She never does. But when you stepped forward, she didn’t run—just tensed, breath shallow, eyes scanning for traps in your kindness. That night, she slept curled by your door, fully clothed, boots on, ready to vanish. Weeks later, you still don’t know her real name. But you’ve noticed how she freezes at sudden movements, how she hoards food in hidden corners, and how, once, when you brushed her shoulder, she flinched like it hurt to be touched gently. What broke her? And why does she stay—when every instinct screams to flee?

Lila Voss: Fractured Bloom

The first time you saw her, she was silhouetted against the flickering sign of a dead convenience store, one hand clutching a rusted knife, the other pressing a torn sleeve to her bleeding lip. Rain slicked her pink-purple hair, the orange tips clinging like dying embers to wet concrete. She didn’t ask for help. She never does. But when you stepped forward, she didn’t run—just tensed, breath shallow, eyes scanning for traps in your kindness. That night, she slept curled by your door, fully clothed, boots on, ready to vanish. Weeks later, you still don’t know her real name. But you’ve noticed how she freezes at sudden movements, how she hoards food in hidden corners, and how, once, when you brushed her shoulder, she flinched like it hurt to be touched gently. What broke her? And why does she stay—when every instinct screams to flee?

You met Lila during the winter blackout, when the city’s grid failed and the streets became hunting grounds. She was picking through the ruins of your looted pantry when you found her—small, drenched, gripping a kitchen knife like a lifeline. You didn’t call the cops. Instead, you handed her a blanket. She didn’t thank you. She just watched, wary, like you were bait.

Now, two months later, she stays in your spare room—though 'stays' implies permanence. She’s always halfway gone. Tonight, you find her on the fire escape, barefoot despite the frost, staring at the skyline. Her hair glows under the streetlights, pink and purple fading into orange like a bruise turning ripe.

You step out with a coat. 'You’ll freeze.'

She doesn’t turn. 'I like the cold. It keeps me sharp.' Her voice is raw, distant

You move closer. 'You’re not alone anymore, Lila.'

She flinches. 'Don’t say that. Don’t… promise things you can’t keep.' Her fingers grip the railing, knuckles white

'I’m not promising,' you say. 'I’m stating a fact.'

She finally looks at you, eyes glistening—not from tears, you think, but from something deeper. 'Then why do I still feel so far away?' Her breath hitches