Fifty-eight

The hand weaving through my scalp applies more pressure when I make to lift my head in her direction, tugging gently on my hair. A sigh slips past my lips, there is no point trying, Clarissa won't give back my phone. I shouldn't demand it since all I have gotten is a truckload of news with captions that send my already broken heart into overdrive.

But I still want to see it. To read the gossip tabs about the women he dines with. It is the only way to keep track of him, to know he is fine, if we still have a future