Lustorya

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Lucien Corven

Aftercare

The city never slept, and neither did the hunger that bound Elena and Marcus together like invisible chains forged in the fires of their separate neglects. Elena’s wound was the vast, echoing absence—parents who existed only as signatures on checks and fleeting voice-mails from distant time zones, leaving

Take Up Space

Caleb had spent thirty-two years learning how to disappear inside his own skin. In the house where he grew up, noise was currency. His father’s bellowing laugh swallowed the dinner table whole. His mother’s sharp, endless corrections carved grooves into every silence. His older sister’s tantrums were

Quiet Girls Don’t Ask

She had learned the rules before she could spell her own name. In the house where she grew up, need was dangerous. A child’s cry for water after bedtime earned a flat stare and the slow click of a door shutting. A scraped knee brought the sigh that meant

Bruises That Don’t Show

Bruises That Don’t Show

Sienna had learned love in the language of whiplash. Her mother’s laughter could fill a room one minute and vanish the next, replaced by slammed doors and days of silence that felt like punishment for existing too loudly. Her father’s affection came in sudden, fierce bursts—scooping her

Stay Where I Left You

Elias had learned early that people left. His mother had packed a single suitcase when he was seven, kissed his forehead like it was an afterthought, and walked out the door into a rain that never seemed to stop. His father stayed in the house but vanished anyway—eyes on

The Shape of Being Held

The Shape of Being Held

Isadora had learned early that needs were inconvenient. At eight, she stood in the silent kitchen with a report card full of perfect marks clutched in her small fists. Her mother barely glanced up from the phone. “Don’t be dramatic about it.” The words had settled under her ribs

Yours Until I’m Not

Yours Until I’m Not

Eve Sinclair had spent her entire life learning how to disappear. Not in the dramatic, runaway sense. No suitcases stuffed under beds or midnight bus tickets. Her vanishing act was quieter, more surgical. She had perfected the art of being present without taking up space—smiling at the right moments,