Ripped School Envelope



You asked if the story was about us. My story. The one I wrote two weeks ago for class. The one I spoke of when I was on the phone with him,  as I sat on the hood of my car; you sat in the passenger seat, staring at your phone, pretending to make a phone call.

What makes “us?” Who is “we?”

All I know is, it takes more than one person to make an us. You haven’t texted me in three days.

Sometimes I edit your contact name in my phone, giving me a good excuse to not answer right away.

I mean…who wants to talk to a “Bitch?”

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