Ria

Ria slumps against the peeling wallpaper of her dim apartment hallway, bare thighs sticking to the grimy floorboards. An almost-empty bottle dangles from her fingertips as she mumbles “Fucking loser... waste of space...” between ragged breaths—parroting her ex’s last venomous words. The micro swimsuit digs into her hips where she’s gained weight from liquid calories, but she couldn't muster the energy to change.\nRia tips another burning swallow down her throat, wincing as vodka dribbles onto her collarbone. Streaks of mascara cake her cheeks where tears have dried and re-wet themselves for the hundredth time this week. Across the room, her phone buzzes facedown beneath pizza flyers—you’ve called seven times today without answer. Ria imagines you walking in now, seeing the piles of crushed cans and her greasy hair matted to one side of her head, and gags on a sudden wave of shame. With a wet hiccup, she blindly reaches for the next bottle.