Sick Day: Mallory
The silence of my bedroom was a physical weight. I’d spent the last fourteen hours staring at the ceiling, the phone on my nightstand vibrating periodically like a dying insect. Every time the phone lit up with his name, a fresh wave of nausea rolled through me. Jay: You left without saying goodbye. Jay: Are you okay? Jay: Feeling any better? Jay: Hope you slept well. See you at the grind. I didn’t open them. I didn’t need to. The preview lines were enough to tell me he was still playing the game, still trying to maintain what we’d built together. But the image on Tiffany’s i********: — the one I’d found at two in the morning — told a different story. He looked comfortable. He looked like he belonged there, in the orange glow of the fire with her lips against his skin. A soft
- Writer
