There was my baby—my Islah.
Smiling like life was good, on a fuckin’ beach, with that nigga’s hand wrapped around her waist as if it belonged there.
My eyes dropped to her hand; it was a ring, a different ring than the other last ring I saw on her finger. It was bigger.
I then looked at the caption and realized that he tagged her in the post, and it read:
She said yes.
For a second, I didn’t feel shit.
I just sat there.
Then it hit me all at once.
That tight feeling in my chest came back, even heavier this time.
She wasn’t hiding; she wasn’t playin’.
She really chose that nigga over me. I zoomed in on her face.
That was the happiest I had ever seen her—that pissed me off.
Like I never existed, like I never loved her. I let out a slow breath, nodding to myself.
“Iight… bet?—"
My eyes shot to the right. I was so in my head that I didn’t even see Kronic walk back up to the car. He opened the door, and before he could say anything, I tossed him my phone.
“Nigga, what the fuck is this?” he asked before he looked.
“He proposed to her.”
“Good for her, let’s go home,” he said.
I tilted my head at him, sucked my teeth, snatched my phone away, and pulled outta the parking lot with the car door still open, Kronic hardly in the car.
“Mann, nigga, what the fuck is wrong with you?” he snapped, grabbin’ the handle, slamming the door shut.
I didn’t answer; I couldn’t.
My jaw was tight, hands locked on the wheel, knuckles damn near white while I pushed the car harder than I needed to. Every light, every turn, every car in front of me felt like it was in my way.
That picture was still burned in my head.
Her, that smile, that nigga—the ring, that fuckin’ caption.
And she said fuckin’ yes to him.
That shit kept echoing louder than anything Kronic was saying.
“She said yes,” I muttered under my breath again, like if I kept saying it, it would make it make sense.
Kronic looked over at me, already knowing where this was going.
“Aye, brah,” he said calmly. “Don’t do nothing stupid, brah.”
I laughed. Low, dry.
