After Hours

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Millie can't explain the sensation of stepping a foot on the American soil again.

Her private jet took her home, in Atlanta, where an empty apartment was waiting for her. God, she already misses London, her pond, her garden, the comfort of her cottage and the distance. Yes, those infinite thousand of miles that took her apart from her problems.

Her face is pale, upset by the jet leg; the vitality and energy drain out of her legs as she takes the elevator that connects her to the complex of apartments in the very center of the town— God, so many people were at Ponce City Market that evening.

She just wishes they had the decency to leave her alone. At least for one day. She seriously can't deal with the fans.

Her body guard guides her through the crowd, while her head is covered by her black hoodie and a pair of sunglasses.

"We are here, Miss Brown. For anything, you can call me." The man reassures her, and she smiles in gratitude they reach the door.

"Thank you, Oliver." She replies softly. "Have a good night."

A twist of keys and there it is, the usual messy loft. Seems like the chaos followed her: no matter when Millie went, she always left the traces of her presence behind. Physically ... and figuratively.

She drops her expensive Louis Vuitton trolley and immediately snaps the curtains of the steel-framed window open, letting the dull grey sky be the only company she needs. There isn't the sun today; demoralizing to say the least.

Her mood is dangling back and forth like a pendulum because of that phone call. Because Finn Wolfhard, yes, that asshole, ruined her birthday and all of her good intentions.

And her love story with Louis? Over. She didn't even know what she would have done from this point on.

She just feels nonexistent, and numb. It is the right time to take her pills.

It's when she travel to the bathroom, right when she is standing in front of the medicine cabinet that Millie feels a presence. It's a cold shiver running down her spine; a shadow of a hand grazing the back of her neck. It's anxiety, blood pumping on the veins, and more.

She shakes her head, opening the sink and washing her face with some cold water and, then, she shakes the pills container with her fingers and she gulp them down her throat, trying to not think about it anymore.

Her therapy consisted in one dose of Lexapro in the morning and one in the night— just to cure her depression symptoms.

Recently, the number of pills has doubled, and she is not proud of it. At all. But the medias were ruining her; Finn's love obsessing her; the lack of real friendships was still a heavy burden she carried on her shoulders; and finally, there was the need to die, in a little corner of her heart.

She thought about it, plenty of times. Dying. Would life be better if she died? Would people miss her and remembered her? Was she worth to such gift as living? Millie is still looking for an answer.

She wanders around the floor, sleepy eyes catching the ambient: there are shoes on the table; packs of branded clothes coming directly from the most expensive boutiques; branch of flowers from some sponsors in and there. But then something stands out: the only thing that is not related to job in any way.

It's Finn's bomber jacket. It's still there, on her sofa, since the day she used it to repair herself from the cold.

There memories of Six Flags day brings her back to the fire of her fingers touching his chest, all of the emotions he let out; his gaze eating her alive; every fiber of his cells despising her for what she did to him.

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