Leave the Light On

Aurora: Her name means dawn — the first light breaking through darkness, relentless and inevitable. It’s an irony she wears like a secret weight, because the dawn is the one thing she’s always trying to outrun.

Tonight, the city’s shadows are her refuge, a place where she can pretend the sun doesn’t exist. The night holds no promises, no expectations — just the hum of music, the pulse of neon, and the burn of margaritas sliding down her throat.

Some people drink to celebrate. Aurora drinks to disappear.

Not in the sloppy, self-pitying way that makes people uncomfortable — but in the deliberate, almost graceful way of someone who’s tired of carrying her own mind around. Tonight isn’t about fun — though it’s masked to be that way, and she’s almost fully convinced herself of it. It’s about drowning the noise in her head before it drowns her. Filling every quiet space with music, strangers, and glass after glass until there’s no room left for the thoughts she’s been avoiding.

The first margarita is sharp and sweet, lighting a fire beneath her ribs. The beer that follows is cold and bitter, chasing away the sharp edges of the night. Later, the buzz turns electric with Red Bull vodka shots — reckless jolts she takes to keep the night alive, to chase away the creeping exhaustion and keep the escape going just a little longer.

She isn’t looking for peace. She’s looking for numb. And the night is always willing to give it to her.

The dive bars, the sticky floors, the neon signs buzzing overhead — they are familiar battlegrounds. Her friends pull her into the noise, laughter erupting over clinking glasses, conversations fading into shouts over jukebox songs.

The city’s strip calls, wet pavement reflecting streetlights, the smell of spilled beer and vape smoke hanging thick. Bar after bar blurs together, each one a fleeting escape. She dances without care, presses into strangers who will vanish by morning. Somewhere between the third and fourth place, she realizes she hasn’t thought about him in hours — and that feels like a kind of miracle.

Eventually, the chaos funnels them into someone’s third-floor apartment — a place found only by chance or by knowing someone ready to continue the party. The heat clings to the air; takeout boxes clutter counters; shoes pile at the door.

The night shifts here. Bottles pop, cards shuffle, and the living room becomes its own orbit. They’re louder, drunker now, laughter jagged and sharp. Someone’s knee brushes hers under the table; someone else leans too close when pouring another drink. It’s easy, harmless — the kind of casual flirting that makes you feel wanted without being needed.

Rules blur with every drink, scores vanish the moment they’re written. They toast to nothing, to everything, to the fact the night hasn’t ended yet. Every stolen minute feels like cheating reality — buying time, just a little more.

Aurora sinks into the couch, warmth settling into her limbs. Cards continue to shuffle, voices thread through the music. She closes her eyes, and in that moment, the world feels lighter. No memories claw at her. No dread. No him.

But night is a liar.

Outside, black softens to gray. Shadows sharpen. The music shrinks, laughter thins — like the night knows it’s losing its hold. First streaks of gold pierce the horizon, bleeding through cracks.

And Aurora knows she cannot run forever. She stays still, willing the sun to stop, to turn back, to give her just one more hour in the dark. But the light spreads, unstoppable. It crawls over her skin, burning away the only version of herself she can bear.

And as the room brightens, Aurora swallows the ache in her throat. She is the dawn. And she hates it.

Because the night was the only place she could forget who she was.

Now she knows — the truth lives inside her, and there’s no outrunning the sunrise.