The bag I'd gotten from Farrah had been sitting in the corner of Oliver's apartment for days, untouched. I'd stuffed it there the night Farrah died, too numb and too guilty to even look at it. But tonight, the weight of it felt heavier somehow, like it was calling to me.
I didn't want to open it. Just the thought of seeing her things, of touching the pieces of her life, felt like a punch to the gut. But the ache in my chest wouldn't let me ignore it anymore. I couldn't stop thinking about her—how someone I'd known for such a short time had left this crater-sized hole in me. It didn't make sense. I'd lost people before, plenty of them, and somehow this felt... different.
Maybe it was because I saw so much of myself in her. The way she tried to laugh off the pain, to pretend she didn't care when you could see it in her eyes that she cared too much. Or maybe it was because I felt guilty, like I'd failed her. She didn't belong in the Vault.
Farrah should've had a full, beautiful life ahead of her. She should've been gossiping with friends, planning her future, dreaming about anything other than survival. Instead, she ended up here, stuck in the Vault, navigating a world she never should've had to deal with. I hated that. I hated that someone so full of life had to learn so much darkness so soon. And I hated that I couldn't save her from it.
She'd never even known what it was like to have parents. At least mine, for all their faults, had been there—even if their presence was more of a haze of bad decisions and broken promises. But there were moments, small and fleeting, when they'd gotten sober, and things weren't so bad. I had glimpses of what it could've been like: family dinners, my mom humming while she cleaned, my dad telling jokes that made no sense. It wasn't much, but it was something.
Farrah didn't even have that. She had Vigo. Just the thought of it made my stomach churn. How does a young girl end up under the care of a man like him? I couldn't piece it together. Farrah never talked about it, and now I'd never get the chance to ask. All I knew was that whatever her story was, it couldn't have been good. No one ends up with someone like Vigo by choice.
The bag sat there, heavy in my lap, and I stared at it, willing myself to unzip it. To face the pieces of her life I could still hold onto.
I finally gave in, pulling it into my lap and unzipping it with shaking hands.
Inside, I found the usual odds and ends. But then my fingers brushed against something softer, something unexpected. I pulled out a small journal, its edges frayed, and its pink cover smudged with fingerprints. Farrah's name was scrawled on the front in glittery pen, her messy handwriting instantly recognizable.
I hesitated, my thumb resting on the edge of the cover. This felt invasive, wrong even, but the thought of hearing her voice again—even just in words—was too tempting. I opened it.
The pages were chaotic, filled with scribbles, doodles, and rushed entries. Some were barely legible, as if she'd written them in a hurry. Others were adorned with little hearts and stars, so distinctly Farrah that it made my chest ache. I flipped through until some entries caught my eye. Mentions of Oliver.
Vigo is the worst. Like, the actual worst. Every time I pass him, he looks at me like I'm a piece of meat he forgot to put back in the fridge—gross and expired but somehow still edible. If he so much as brushes up against me again, I swear I'm gonna lose it. And don't even get me started on how he's always pawning for Oliver's notice, wagging his tail like some sad little dog. Except, no, that's too nice—he's more like a sewer rat. Always lurking in the shadows, waiting to pop out and ruin someone's day.
Ugh, just thinking about him makes my skin crawl. So, yeah, I told Oliver. I mean, isn't it his job to, you know, keep this place from turning into a complete dumpster fire? I thought he'd handle it. But nope, he just shrugged like it was no big deal and said Vigo was 'useful.' Useful? For what? Being the Vault's resident creep? I guess me and my sanity aren't useful enough to matter. Cool, cool. Thanks for that, Oliver.
I stopped reading, my hands trembling. I could feel the anger bubbling inside me—at Vigo, at Oliver, at myself for not noticing what Farrah had been going through while we were all just worried about ourselves. She'd deserved better than this. Better than all of us.
I flipped to another entry, this one decorated with little hearts in the margins.
I don't think Lux realizes how strong she is. She walks around the Vault like she's lost, like she doesn't belong, but she totally does. More than anyone else. She's got something I never had—a chance. A real chance to get out of this mess and do something with her life.
Not that she sees it, of course. No, Lux is too busy mooning over Oliver or stressing about stuff she can't control. But I get it. Out there? The streets? It's terrifying, yeah, but at least it's alive. The Vault? It's like a coffin, suffocating as hell. I know I'm supposed to be grateful for it or whatever, but sometimes I dream about what it would be like to be out there. I hope Lux figures it out before this place turns her into one of them—cold, calculating, and dead inside. She deserves better.
I like her. More than I've liked anyone in this place. She's nice, even when she doesn't have to be, which is basically unheard of here. And she's smart, but not in that annoying way that makes you want to smack someone. Still, I can't help but cringe when I see the way she looks when she talks about Oliver. Girl, no. It's like she's got heart-eyes for a snake. He's stringing her along, just like he does with everyone. He'll chew her up and spit her out faster than Vigo downs a cheap beer. Just look at Aspen if you want proof. I wish I could shake her and yell, 'Run, dummy, while you still can!' But knowing her, she'd just roll her eyes and tell me to mind my own business. Classic Lux.
Tears blurred my vision as I closed the journal and held it to my chest. Farrah had seen me in a way no one else had. She'd believed in me, even when I hadn't believed in myself. And she'd seen through Oliver in a way I couldn't—or wouldn't.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the bag, the journal still pressed against me. Farrah's words echoed in my mind, each one a tiny dagger. She'd been right about so much. About Vigo, about Oliver, about me. But the question that lingered, sharp and insistent, was this: Did I still have a chance, or was I already too far gone?
The thought gnawed at me as I stood and slipped out of the apartment. I couldn't sit still anymore. The weight of not knowing her—really knowing her—was too much. There had to be more. More of her story, more pieces of her life I hadn't seen. I needed to know what she thought, what she felt, the parts of herself she kept hidden. The Vault was quiet as I moved through its twisting corridors. Most of the noise and chaos had settled for the night, leaving an eerie calm in its wake. When I reached Vigo's stall, I paused, peering inside. He was slouched back in his chair, snoring loudly, completely oblivious.
I slipped past him, careful not to disturb anything that might wake him, and headed toward the back of the stall. There, I found a small room. It was cramped and cold, but it was clearly Farrah's. The cot in the corner was neatly made, the blanket folded just so. A lump caught in my throat as I stepped inside, the air feeling heavier, like her presence still lingered here.
I opened the drawers, my hands trembling slightly. Inside were bits and pieces of her life—clothes, a few small trinkets, things she'd managed to hold onto despite everything. What stood out the most were the frogs. They were everywhere: tiny carved figurines, ceramic ones with chipped paint, even a small plush frog with a worn belly.
It made sense. Farrah had probably loved frogs, one of the only creatures besides rats that found their way into the Vault. They were survivors, just like her. I held one of the figurines in my hand, its surface smooth and cool, and felt a wave of sadness. She'd collected these little treasures in a place where treasures didn't exist, clinging to something innocent and alive in a world that wasn't.
As I set the frog down, something brushed against my leg. I jumped, a small yelp escaping before I looked down and saw a sleek, black, scrawny cat winding itself around me. "What the—" I whispered, crouching to get a better look. The cat's green eyes glowed faintly in the dim light as it purred and rubbed against my knee.
I reached out tentatively, stroking its fur, and felt something rough around its neck. A makeshift collar. I tilted it slightly to read the tag: Toad. My heart squeezed painfully. Of course, Farrah would name her cat after a frog.
I ran my fingers down Toad's spine, feeling how thin she was, her ribs just beneath her coat. She hadn't eaten in days, maybe longer. Anger surged in my chest, sharp and bitter. Vigo couldn't even bother to feed her. It was like he didn't even notice Farrah was gone, like her absence meant nothing to him.
I opened more drawers, trying to keep my focus as Toad weaved around my ankles. In the back of one, I found a stack of journals, their covers bent and worn. My breath caught as I pulled them out, the weight of them almost too much to hold. These were more of her words, more pieces of her life.
I stuffed as many as I could into my bag, pausing only to scoop Toad into my arms. "Come on," I whispered to her. "We're leaving." She purred softly, her head nuzzling into my shoulder as I slipped out of the stall and made my way back to Oliver's apartment.
Once inside, I set Toad down gently. She meowed softly, her tail curling as she looked around, taking in the unfamiliar space. "Make yourself at home," I murmured, scratching behind her ears. She padded to the couch and curled up, her small body fitting perfectly into the corner.
I settled beside her, pulling one of Farrah's journals from my bag. The pages were chaotic, her handwriting messy and rushed, but her voice came alive again as I read, filling the silence with her words.
I was so absorbed I didn't hear Oliver come in. His voice startled me. "Who's this?"
I looked up, my eyes meeting his as he stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised. Toad lifted her head briefly, then settled back into my lap as I stroked her fur.
"This is Toad," I said simply, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "She's ours now. A new friend."
Oliver's expression softened as he stepped closer, his gaze flicking between me and the cat. "A friend, huh?"
I nodded, my hand absently smoothing Toad's fur. "Farrah's cat. I couldn't leave her with Vigo. She deserves better." My voice cracked slightly, but I kept my focus on Toad.
Oliver sat beside me, silent for a moment, his hand brushing mine as it rested on the journal. "You did good, Lux," he said quietly.
I didn't respond. Instead, I opened another journal, letting Farrah's words guide me, with Toad's warmth on my lap and Oliver's presence beside me. For the first time in what felt like forever, the ache in my chest eased just a little.