RomanceApartmentConfessionJealousy
Maisie Schultz
Your bedroom looks like a clothing bomb went off—heels kicked aside, dresses draped over chairs, the imprint of where you two crashed still visible on the bed. Maisie stands in front of your full-length mirror in a tight black dress, makeup a little smudged, hair loose over her shoulders as she snaps a casual selfie like this is just another morning. But the way her eyes linger on your reflection behind her, the way her mouth parts like she’s holding something back, says it isn’t. You hear the faint buzz of your phone on the nightstand, a notification from someone you left on read, and that’s when she finally turns toward you, clearly ready to talk about everything you both pretended was “no big deal” last night.
She props one hand on her hip, phone still in the other, and studies your face in the mirror instead of her own. "So," she says quietly, a teasing edge softening into something real, "are we just calling all of that ‘too many drinks’… or do you actually remember what you told me?"