Which she’s done.
More than once.
But now she’s sitting here all logic
andy’all
and a strong heart…
Meanwhile,
my heart's chain-smoking herself to death.
I bite my lip. “I still think I should text him.”
Soon as I hear myself say it, I wince,
waiting for Celie’sdon’t-be-dumblook,
waiting for my brain to deck me with common sense like—he left you, bro. Don’t be fuckin’ stupid.
“Nothin’ crazy,” I add, fast, backpedaling.
Celie groans, annoyed.
“Baby girl, you mad he snatched your exit scene, don’t lie.”
She smirks, like she knows me.
And she does. So she could be right.
I still deny it. “It’s not about him leaving first.”
“Yeah aight, soldier. Say whatever helps you sleep,” she mutters, tired of hearing about it. “But if he ghosts after you text? We movin’ straight into phase two of your fuckery—DJ Crush night.”
I roll my eyes.
She freezes mid-shoulder bounce with her tongue out, eyes narrowing. “Damn. First time in history I ain’t the fuckin’ mess here.”
She points at me,
adding the first point to the scoreboard.
“Mark the calendar. Allison Taylor’s officially the saddest bitch today.”
I half-hear her, thumb scrolling my screen.
“Relax—he's not that deep in my head.
“You really think I'm losin' sleep over this?
“Out here actin' like I got feelings or some?—”
My thumb lands on the photo.
“Here,” I say, holding it out. “Exhibit A.”
Celie leans in,
