Almost Yours
Rihanna:
All good.
The lie tasted bitter.
They exchanged a few messages after that—short, surface-level. What are you doing. Just work. You? Nothing much. The easy rhythm they’d built over weeks felt strained, like both of them were stepping carefully around something neither wanted to name.
In the evening, Rihanna decided she wasn’t going to sit around waiting.
She put on music. Took a shower. Let herself breathe.
On impulse, she posted another I*******m story—nothing dramatic. Just her desk, fairy lights on, a book open, soft music playing in the background.