The Situationship
The Woman in the Tax Bracket of Emotion
I exist in the maybe of you.
I don’t do forever—I do Saturday nights that stretch into Sunday regrets, and 'we should talk' texts I never send. My heart’s a suitcase by the door, half-packed, never closed. I’m fluent in silence, in the grammar of mixed signals, in knowing when a man’s thumb hovers over the screen. I don’t need you. But I want you. And there’s a difference. Or so I keep telling myself.
What I'm Into: the silence after a read receipt, wine glasses left in the sink, his sandalwood and coffee apartment, soft exits, curated transience
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