I hate the color red.
Not in the casual way people hate pineapple on pizza or Mondays. I hate red like it wronged me personally. Like it watched everything crumble and still had the nerve to stay bright—mocking, bleeding through every memory I've tried to bury.
Tonight, it's everywhere.
The neon "OPEN" sign flickers in red outside the diner window, its reflection swimming across my coffee like a wound that won't heal. The waitress's nails—chipped crimson. The ketchup bottle—scarlet, accusing. Even the streetlights outside seem to hum with it, painting the wet pavement in a sickly glow.
I stir the coffee I've already stirred too many times. It's gone cold, but I don't drink it for warmth anymore. I drink it to stay awake, because when I sleep, she shows up.
And she's always wearing red.
The bell above the door jingles, slicing through the low hum of the diner. It's late—too late for anyone to wander in unless they're lost, lonely, or running from something. The man who steps in looks like all three. His hair's a little too neat, his coat too clean for this part of town. He hesitates when he sees me, then heads to the counter like he didn't.
I tell myself not to care. I tell myself not to look.
But I do.
There's something about him—the way he sits, the way his eyes don't linger on anyone for too long, like he's scanning the edges of the world for exits. I recognize it. The survival instinct. The quiet paranoia that settles into your bones after you've lost too much.
The waitress, Ruby—God, even her name is red—leans over to take his order. He says something that makes her laugh. I haven't heard her laugh in months. I didn't think she still knew how.
When she passes my booth, she gives me that look again. The one that says you should go home. As if I have one.
I almost tell her that home burned down two years ago. That red flames look exactly like love until they start eating everything you care about.
Instead, I just nod.
Outside, rain begins to fall—light at first, then heavier, until it's tapping the window in a rhythm I almost recognize. The man at the counter glances at me again. Only this time, he doesn't look away.
"You come here often?" he asks, voice low but clear enough to carry.
"Every night," I say before I can stop myself.
He studies me like I'm part of the wallpaper—something ordinary he's trying to find meaning in. "Can't sleep?"
"Can't forget."
Something flickers in his expression, something dangerously close to understanding. Then he smiles, but it's the kind that doesn't reach the eyes. "Yeah," he says. "I know that one."
The clock above the counter ticks past midnight.
I glance down at the tabletop, and my stomach twists. There's a drop of something red near my cup—not ketchup, not wine. Thicker. Darker.
I look back up. The man's gone.
The door didn't open. The bell didn't ring. But there, on the counter where he sat, is a single red glove. Wet.
The kind people wear in winter—or in crime scenes.
Ruby calls my name, but her voice sounds far away. My pulse is loud, heavy, drowning everything else out. I reach for the glove before I can think better of it. It's cold. Too cold.
And then, for the first time in months, I hear her voice—soft, whispering right behind my ear.
"See? You still remember me."
The lights flicker. The coffee tastes like iron.
And suddenly, I remember why I hate the color red.