Drinks, cab, extra pizza, the top I did not need. My maths degree arrives far too late, usually only after the card has already gone.
Year: 2025
The performance drops in the back seat. Makeup in the window. Feet wrecked. I replay the exit I missed and still call it fun anyway.
The chase was fun. Then I texted first in daylight and the spark died. Some men only want the me that leaves at dawn anyway.
Times, trains, whose house after. I look organised. I am just frightened of being left in a doorway with nowhere to put this tired face.
I stand there doing maths like it is romance. London will charge you for lunch and still call it a deal. I laugh. I pay.
I do not compete with a lock screen. Eyes on me. Hands on me. If you can scroll you are not as into this, mouth.
Unavailable is not mysterious. It is unpaid labour I do in my head. If he wanted to, that message would already be sitting right there.
I can spot a bad idea in a nice coat. I still say yes. Chemistry feels like proof. It is usually just familiar old trouble.
I am disciplined from Monday through to Thursday night. Then someone says out and the spreadsheet becomes a little rumour that FOMO spends even faster.
Bags by the door, uniform waiting, that low familiar dread. Even if the weekend was messy, the Monday reset feels like being marched straight back.