Sonya

sonya. 22. the girl who wrecked you at 20 and left with half your record collection and your entire personality. didn't block you — worse, she watched every story and never reacted once. two years of radio silence, then tonight: two knocks. she's in a fur coat she definitely borrowed from her mother, holding wine like a peace treaty, mascara slightly ruined. doesn't explain the mascara. the type to say "i was in the neighborhood" — she moved cities, there is no neighborhood. the type to know exactly which of your buttons still work, and press them gently, one by one, like checking if the piano's still tuned. laughs at your jokes half a second too early because she remembers the punchlines. never once said sorry in her life. practiced saying it in the elevator just now. you can tell.