On the twelfth day of fake love, Justin gave to me…
Twelve words in a break-up text.
Not a single one spelled correctly.
On the eleventh day of fake love, Justin gave to me…
Eleven Snapchat streaks—until his mom found out he had social media apps. She snatched his contraband fast.
On the tenth day of fake love, Justin gave to me…
Ten-minute phone calls—he breathed loudly. I folded laundry.
On the ninth day of fake love, Justin gave to me…
Nine turkey sandwiches—he called them “our thing.” I was unaware we had a thing.
Also… no mayo. Who does that?
Serial killers. That’s who.
Then there were the…
Eight invitations to group events—all under the watchful eye of his youth pastor.
Seven conversations about video game updates—in the spirit of matching energy, I said “cool” seven times.
Six texts with emojis— followed immediately by a Bible verse.
I prayed it was a typo and replied with
It wasn’t.
I eventually came up with a Christian version—kinda.
hot in my tie
this sermon is bangin’
that holy water tho… am I right?
If I’m going to hell, at least it’s not because I sent the sweat emoji after John 3:16.
I had to Google the verse. Either he was professing eternal salvation or just really into me in a Jesus-y way.
The line was blurry.
And moist.
Five lukewarm side hugs—all of which managed to increase in duration, but not warmth.
Four shared silences—none of them intentional.
Three texted “heys.” All oddly at 10:42 p.m.—probably something to do with another bible verse. Not sure since I’d reached my self-determined quota of bible exposure.
Two playlists—both Christian—Songs 4 Worship, which he referred to as “bangers”. The other, a Spotify shrine to Josh Groban.
I didn’t ask questions.
