you posted one page from her book
on your Instagram story.
just one.
black background.
white serif text.
nothing dramatic.
but the moment I read it—
my chest dropped.
"but friends don't drive eight fucking miles
at 3 in the morning
just to cook you something warm
and stay long enough
to be mistaken for home."
I swear to God,
I almost dropped my phone.
it was me.
it fucking was.
no one else did that shit.
I sat there,
frozen in the middle of my shitty office,
as my girlfriend kept texting me
about some party we were supposed to attend.
and all I could think was—
was you writing about me?
do you still think of me too?