"Lydia?"
She stares into the tiny compact mirror, tilting her head side to side to make sure the sheen on her lip gloss is as perfect as she can get it, then snaps the lid shut on the reflective circle.
And, just like that, her face is gone.
Sometimes she wishes it were that easy with other things, too. But never with her boyfriend. Never Jackson. She adores Jackson.
"Coming!" she calls, turning on her heel, and saunters off to find the boy who makes her feel wanted and special and loved.
XxXxXxXxXx
Lydia isn't exactly accustomed to feeling sorry for other people. She simply doesn't have the time. And she's not sure what it is that makes her different – the girl who stutters through her introduction and hugs her back against the lockers and wears a boutique jacket like it's a guilty secret.
Allison Argent.
Lydia just found her new best friend.
Allison is there when Lydia laughs and there when Lydia cries and when Jackson dumps her and when she screamsscreamsscreams because it's never going to be enough. Any of it.
Lydia listens to the gossip, and the gossip says that she is crazy.
XxXxXxXxXx
That all changes, though, like she knew it would.
It changes because of Allison, and Stiles, and Scott, Scott who she kissed and Scott who kissed her back at the formal. Scott who is the perfect leader and isn't that really what she needs? To lose control – to give everything up?
Scott has shining scarlet eyes, and Scott is an alpha – except now he can't control it either and all of a sudden she is the sane one and the tables are turned on a Sunday. Bloody, bloody Sunday.
Scott looks at her like he's seeing her for the first time when she screams.
Scott looks at her like she's his salvation, the worst salvation ever from the nightmare that is his love for Allison, and she fucking loves it.
XxXxXxXxXxXx
She's a little sick of the lights – they make her head spin and spin and her world loop in onto its self like a burning brand.
Then he comes along – a bad boy on a bike, but still, he's the only solid thing in her life right now. Or, at least, he acts like it.
And it's all Aiden, Aiden, Aiden until she's delirious in a good way and it doesn't really matter if she's Lydia the beautiful or Lydia the banshee because she is with him and everything is okay. She doesn't need a finite identity.
And then the ribbons of red are sliding from his throat and it all crashes back down on her head like the life she lost with Jackson and Allison.
XxXxXxXxXxXx
These are the people who affect her life, she thinks. Jackson – the memoir of the girl she once was. Allison – a pale ghost who occupies a vast crevasse in her heart. Scott – the boy she would die a hundred times over to protect. And Aiden – he promised new and beautiful things and now he is gone, gone, gone.
But, wait. Isn't she missing someone?
She gazes at the ivory chess pieces that glide across the chessboard of her life and smiles in amusement.
Stiles.
Goddamnit. She's torn between finding him a nuisance and wanting to cling to him and never ever let him go ever again.
Ever.
He's too much sarcasm and a headache and warm grins all wrapped up in a body that wears flannel shirts and thinks too loud.
And he doesn't tear her life apart like a whirlwind or inspire her to lose herself. He helps her see who she is.
Lydia's lips, devoid of products for once in a lifetime, twitch.
Yeah, okay.
She has something with Stiles.