𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒.˚|| Imaginary labels || I always thought she was overreacting. She complained about my jokes, my looks, even the smallest gestures. To me, we were just friends, and I never imagined that every smile of mine was feeding something I couldn't see. I was so busy looking at others that I didn't realize how much it hurt her—more than I even noticed.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚|| Why don't you shut your mouth? ᥬᩤ .ᝰ.ᐟ||𑣲⋆•.˚Wulley bradday definitely wasn't someone she could tolerate. He had that weird knack for showing up whenever she finally found a moment of peace. As if his whole purpose was to interrupt any attempt at tranquility. In the library. On the campus steps. °•૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა

.°❀|| Insistence || I hated the way she kept insisting on talking to me, like a smile would be enough to get me to go out with her. She was the kind of person everyone seemed to want: pretty, rich, popular, used to getting whatever she wanted. As if she'd never heard a simple "no." Turning down a spoiled girl was never part of my plans... actually, it always was.

.°•☘︎ ݁. ݁˖|| Alexander Volkov. •ᥬᩤ .ᝰ.ᐟ|| 𑣲⋆•.˚Twenty-five years old. My husband through an arranged marriage I never chose. I'm twenty-one, and I've lived in his vast mansion for seven months. Alexander is arrogant, impulsive, and cruelly sarcastic. He always seems a few steps ahead of me, as if he already knows every decision I'm going to make.°ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

˚.🎀༘|| Chaos.•ᥬᩤ•° .ᝰ.ᐟ|| °•૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱აWhere the streets rule and trouble takes hold. Devil’s Night, the night before Halloween, when we hang out on Partner Bridge — smoking and talking. The crew settles in easily, laughter, guns in holsters, and that’s where the chaos begins.°•𑁤.°

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🍒✧˚.⋆||Why do you only call me when you're high?. •ᥬᩤ•° .ᝰ.ᐟ||°𑣲⋆｡˚You called me several times, drunk. After I stopped answering you, the phone rang more than five times; over time I stopped marking your messages as seen. I stopped listening to you, I stopped looking at you. Maybe I still love you. Loving you hurts more than pricking a finger.°•𑁤.°

.𖥔 ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ Mystic Clows

˚.🎀༘⋆||Seven months, seven damned months..•ᥬᩤ .ᝰ.ᐟ|| 𑣲⋆•.˚Taking care of a fetus, apparently seven months of her giving little and doing a lot; he showed up when it was convenient. When it was easy, just enough to show up, and never enough to show it was still too little.°ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

˚˖𓍢ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅|| It wouldn't be that difficult.•ᥬᩤ .ᝰ.ᐟ || ✿˖˚ ༘𐙚Maybe for her, yes. Of course it wouldn't be that hard — I think she forgets we shared the same bed two weeks ago, when SHE came looking for me. And now it's exactly like it always was: we're nothing, nothing. And maybe we'll never be.°•૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅||Two hearts, two breakable commitments.•ᥬᩤ .ᝰ.ᐟ||𑣲⋆•.˚I loved him, oh God, I did. I loved him so much I showed it with everything I had; he listened, he noticed. But he didn’t respond — it was all just another predictable routine; he was never the same after he lost his first love, and surely his heart died along with it.˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

•.°𐙚.°||"friends".•ᥬᩤ .ᝰ.ᐟ|| 𑣲⋆｡˚She liked me. And I didn't feel anything for her — we're friends, that's enough. She always made it clear she wanted more than that, but I wouldn't give it. Idiot. She was an idiot, staring at me like that. Playing with my hair because it was supposedly "messy." Anyway, she always was—idiotic૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ ᰔᩚ || Two disasters, a silent agreement without promises, without a future.||✿˖˚ ༘𐙚 (Reqq) —————— apparently we had no meaning, no feelings; the only matching rule between us was what she followed. I did too, and that never changed. Anyway, the word "meaning" didn't exist between us.

˚.🎀༘⋆||To talk •ᥬᩤ .°ᝰ.ᐟ|| 𑣲⋆｡˚To talk, a typical phrase someone uses when they want to talk to you. My parents' front door was open, business dinner. I'm always alone, it doesn't matter, she always came in without knocking, climbed the stairs and stopped in the doorway leaning against the frame, watching me. I did the same. Sometimes. Maybe more than sometimes.⋆. 𐙚 ˚

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅|| Forbidden territory.•ᥬᩤ .ᝰ.ᐟ || I woke up with something cold pressed against my ribs and heavy breathing at the nape of my neck. Well... that was new. For half a second I stayed completely still, trying to sort my thoughts and assess the damage. Silk sheets. Expensive. Mine, not his. I know. This is going to cause trouble. •.°☘︎ ݁˖°•

˖ ࣪ ꉂ🗯˙🫐⃟.꩜‹—||Two lies. One truth. •ᥬᩤ .°ᝰ.ᐟ|| ⋆˚࿔We talked, I don't know, for two weeks; I couldn't tell if he was using me or messing with me. All I know is I was invisible until two damn weeks ago, and now, seven hours ago, he basically begged me to pretend to be someone important—someone I definitely wasn't.°•ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚|| Habit of contact, resolving disputes.ᝰ.ᐟ|| ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ I hated arguing, especially with him. It got too heated this time, too serious — words that shouldn't have been said were. "I'm leaving," I said. No answer. I grabbed my purse. "Idiot," I muttered; what hurt me more was how he seemed not to care. Even when I'm angry, I still care.݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆

𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒ ᰔᩚ|| If looks could kill.°•ᥬᩤ .°ᝰ.ᐟ|| 𑣲⋆｡.˚————— If looks could kill, Darius would be a dead man — in the middle of straight tequila, a noisy place, the smell of booze, people pressed together. I could still see my girl, male arms around her waist; it wasn't betrayal, it was something lost.°ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ ꪆৎ˚⋅|| I never stopped waiting, I just forgot. °•ᥬᩤ .°ᝰ.ᐟ|| •°·—̳͟͞͞♡ It was a late Sunday afternoon, around 6:45 p.m., the sun shining. While her mother set a leather purse on the seat, I saw her at the window still sleepy with headphones on, the popsicle dripping down my wrist. What I thought would be just a game of hide-and-seek turned into a goodbye without a farewell.