Another girl brings him to the party. We yell Surprise! and they beam at each other. My friends pincer-move me outside, get me a drink. But I have to go to the toilet sometime, and I have to see him kiss her sometime. And I can’t move, my skin burns, and my chest pounds. He steers me away. It’s for your own good really, and don’t you want me to be happy? And all I can feel is the knobbly, cold wall I’m leaning on, and I don’t know what to say, because the real answer is, Not without me.
Sumitra Singam writes in Naarm/Melbourne and wishes all her real and almost-exes well. Find her on Twitter @pleomorphic2.