I know the night bus exists. My feet know it too. Sometimes I pay the stupid fare so I do not think until I get home.
Uniform on the chair. Alarm set. The weekend already feels fictional. London does not let you keep Friday night. It wants you back in pieces.
Lip, coat, nails, bus. Nobody has to know the account. This city reads surfaces first. I give it a surface that looks like proper winning.
A wrist in his story is not commitment. It is cover. If I am good enough for his bed I am good enough for face.
The tube becomes a greenhouse and manners melt. I still put product on. Looking done is how I refuse to let London see me wilt.
Money gone to be ignored faster. I called it efficiency. It was loneliness with a receipt. The app took payment. It did not take me.
Week one he sent paragraphs and playlists. Week two he sent k. That is not passion. It is a highlight reel before the beige flags.
No eye contact. Fast feet. A whole argument finished before my stop. This city is rude and useful. It lets you disappear while staying public.
Believe the first draft. Not ready means not for you, not right now, not ever with anyone who asks for a Saturday in public honestly.
Same kitchen. Same oat milk. Then a rose on the app. The house became an incubator with worse lighting. I shut the fridge, considered leaving.