It wassome. So ridiculous. So raw. So poetic. Or maybe pathetic. One of the Ps.
Hi, my name is Pandora.
An inspirational woman seeking an inspiring man.
Mid-twenties.
Reads too much.
Writes more than she should.
Might be writing this for a magazine. Might be faking it entirely.
I paused.
Can I say writing for a magazine is poetic?
I mean, it’skindapoetry. Right?
God, Penn. Just. Type. The. Thing.
Okay. I love books.
Poetry.
The beach—that’s my church.
I’m not entirely sure if I’m here for love or just a good time. So hello, fellow singles. Let’s mingle.??
Click.
Done.
I leaned back in the chair, letting my eyes drift across the café. People watching was cheaper than therapy. And quieter than Carrie.
Everyone was plugged in, tuned out, looking for something in someone else’s highlight reel.
And me?
I was here with my latte and red velvet regret, trying to remember what life looked like before Blake’s hands knew every curve of my body, before we buried our daughter, before silence became our new form of communication.
Had I ever reallyseenanything clearly?
Or was I just lost inside the us that used to be Blake and me?
It’s been six days since he walked out of my life.
Six days since he shattered it all.
Six days since he kissed me like forever and left like a thief in the dark.
A full moon watched me bleed out under it, alone.
And now Pandora is busy flirting through digital windows while Penn is curled up on the cold tiled floor, unravelling like a badly stitched secret.
Carrie’s been blowing up my phone almost as much as the parade of men slipping into Pandora’s DMs with their sleazy charm and paper-thin promises.
It’s a thin line between pathetic and punchline, somewhere between a bad joke and a virus.
