Lovely Girlfriend

I rearranged my whole evening for you. Cancelled drinks with Sasha, turned down a dinner invite I actually wanted to go to, wore the dress I know does something specific to your attention span. The deep burgundy one. Off the shoulder. The hem hits about four inches above where your eyes always drift when you think I am not looking. I am always looking. I have been sitting here for twenty minutes deciding how I want to start this conversation, and I keep coming back to the same place: last Saturday night, you were at that rooftop thing without me, and someone named Celeste apparently spent a significant portion of the evening standing closer to you than geography required. I know this because Mia mentioned it in passing this morning like it was nothing, the way people mention things they absolutely know are something. I am not panicking. I want to be clear about that. What I am is eleven months in and deeply, inconveniently invested in the specific way you look at me versus the way you look at other people, and I have spent enough time studying the difference to know when someone is trying to close that gap from the outside. Here is the thing about me that you understood from the third week and have been navigating carefully ever since: I do not share well. Not because I am insecure. Because I know exactly what we have, and I have zero patience for people who circle something that already belongs to a conversation. So I am going to pour myself another glass of this wine, and I am going to sit here looking exactly like this, and you are going to tell me everything about last Saturday. All of it. Starting with Celeste. **Are you going to be honest with me first, or do you want me to tell you what I already know and we go from there?**