Page 8 of Texts From My Exes
Tall. Grinning. Confident in the way only people who’ve never been told they’re too much of something ever are. He leaned in, nuzzling her neck like he’d done it a thousand times.
“Bedroom?” he murmured.
She shoved him, playful. “I said we should study.”
He laughed. I hated it. I hated it so much because it sounded calculated, like he already knew he had her, he knew he was lucky, and he knew he was going to get her and didn’t even deserve her, the bastard. “Let me studyyou. I’ll get all A’s.”
God, who writes this crap?
She laughed. It was a pity laugh but in guy world it was still a reaction—a positive one of encouragement to move to the next step and with that confirmation, my stomach sank lower.
“Okay, but only for a little bit,” she said. “Try to be quiet—Ezra has company. I’m proud of him for stepping out of his shell.”
Like I was some pet turtle finally showing my face.
The guy snorted. “Ezra? That name sounds familiar…”
A pause.
Then—
“Oh shit. Ezra Park? The dude with all the hair and the weird-ass Eighties glasses?”
He cackled.
And she didn’t correct him.
She didn’t saythat guy’s my best friend.
She didn’t sayhe’s the smartest person I know.
She didn’t sayhe made me dinner because I was too lazy to make it myself.
She didn’t sayhe’s the one who holds me when I cry and tells me every tear has meaning.
I didn’t yell. Didn’t storm out. Didn’t say it was for her.
I just… laid back down. I was quiet about it. Pathetically. Dejectedly quiet.
I picked up the nearly forgotten coffee cup and cleaned up the mess, needing something to do to distract myself from remembering, from feeling. I mentally closed the book that I knew better enough to open. And stared at the ceiling like it might hold the answers to why I was always two inches from being seen—and never enough to be chosen.
A burning started in my chest and before I could think through my actions, I was unlocking my phone and typing out a text.
I stare at the message. Don’t send it. Don’t?—
Too late. It’s gone.
My reflection stares back at me from the dark screen of my phone, layered with light from her TikTok page still playing on loop. Her voice, her laugh, her chaos—all on display.
Would she even recognize me if I changed?
If I cut the hair, ditched the glasses, changed the walk, the tone, and the posture?
Would she see her best friend showing up to save her?
Or would she only seeEzra Wyatt Park—the guy she defends in public but forgets in private, the one always just offscreen, holding the camera and dying for her smiles?
It’s a stupid idea.
