gold chain | connor bedard

one

the music inside violet hour swallowed people whole.

that was the first thing isla noticed every time she walked in.

not heard.

noticed.

because the bass didn't just play here - it lived beneath your ribs. climbed into your bloodstream. turned thoughts blurry around the edges until everything felt softer, prettier, easier to survive.

the entire club pulsed blue and silver like something underwater.

lights slid across bodies packed too tightly together. smoke curled toward the ceiling in lazy ribbons. laughter crashed over music in waves sharp enough to cut through the noise before disappearing again.

everyone inside looked expensive.

everyone inside looked lonely.

chicago after midnight always did.

isla stood at the bar with one elbow resting against cold marble, slowly stirring the melting ice in her vodka cranberry while juliette screamed the wrong lyrics beside her.

"this song literally changed my life," juliette yelled.

"you say that about every song."

"because music is powerful."

"you cried to a justin bieber remix last week."

juliette pointed at her dramatically. "and i'd do it again."

isla laughed softly into her drink.

a real laugh, surprisingly.

the kind that loosened something tight in her chest for half a second.

she'd needed tonight more than she realized.

the last few weeks had felt like drowning beautifully.

camera flashes. premieres. interviews where strangers asked deeply personal questions with terrifying casualness. makeup chairs at six in the morning. stylists pinning fabric against her body while publicists whispered schedules over their shoulders.

and everywhere she went lately, people stared too long.

the show had ruined anonymity completely.

before, fame had existed in manageable bursts. people recognizing her in airports sometimes. mothers approaching her in bookstores because their daughters loved the fantasy films she'd done as a teenager. old men asking if she was "that girl from the christmas movie."

harmless.

almost sweet.

now it felt invasive.

people spoke to her like they already knew her. like crying onscreen meant they understood her actual heart somehow.

she'd seen edits of herself with millions of views.

strangers discussing her personality like they'd gone to high school together.

fame was terrifying because eventually people stopped seeing you as human.

you became evidence for whatever version of you they'd invented in their heads.

"you're spiraling again," juliette announced.

isla blinked. "what?"

"that look."

"what look?"

"the one where you stare into middle distance like a divorced novelist."

"dramatic."