I leave product everywhere. I know that. Still, if you use my mascara I will know. A shared flat is not a shared bloody face.
Tag: London
Nobody believes us, least of all ourselves. Quick ones turn into last trains and a messy little story I will edit at work Monday morning.
Not romantic on paper. Still adult. A man who can say the word clinic without crumbling is doing more than the ones who just hope.
We made a colour coded masterpiece. Then someone pulled a late and the bathroom went feral. Systems die the first time a night out wins.
I like being asked. I like it more when you pay attention after. Consent is not paperwork. It is you noticing I am still here.
How many. How often. Who it was. That is not public property. Curiosity dressed as concern still wants a full guided tour of my sheets.
Numbers I can do. People I romanticise. That is why the spreadsheet looks adult and my Friday looks like a dare I already accepted tonight.
I put my card down because I could. His whole face changed. Some men only like cocky until the bill proves you need no rescuing.
Nice people go quiet. The group chat dries right up. Then the money leaves and we are mates again. Poverty makes all our manners seasonal.
A man lists bodies and he is experienced. I do the same and I need saving. That double standard is older than my bloody rent.