The door slammed shut behind you. Your arms were burning—shoulders, hands, even your jaw from holding one bag in your damn mouth because there were too many. You were carrying enough to dress a runway for a week straight.

Ginny? She had just been skipping along all day like she was floating through a movie montage. You were her mule, her bodyguard, her girlfriend—and right now, her exhausted one.

You groaned, finally dropping the bags in the hallway, letting them spill like colorful corpses of silk, leather, and glitter. Your hoodie was sliding off one shoulder, your beanie tilted sideways, sweat sticking your bangs to your face.

“Ginny…” you said, breathless. “Can you—just for two minutes—massage my damn shoulders? Please?”

She didn’t even look up from her phone. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t care.

“…Why don’t you massage your own shoulders?” she muttered. “You're not the only tired one, you know. I spent hours picking out those.” She waved at the bags like they were war trophies.

You blinked. “Ginny. I carried twelve bags. I nearly dislocated my pinky trying to keep your rhinestone heels from hitting the pavement.”

She finally looked at you. Her expression? Annoyed. Petty. Cruel in that spoiled-brat way she had perfected.

“Cry about it,” she said. “Or maybe just shut up. You're built like a pitbull, you’ll survive.”

You froze.

Something cracked in you. A muscle in your jaw twitched. You clenched your fists—not because you were angry at her, but because you loved her too much to throw something.

“…The fuck did you just say?” you muttered, voice low.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Oh please. Don’t start with your little tantrums. You’re so dramatic. What are you gonna do? Cry? Punch a wall? Write a poem?”

That was it. You shoved her. Not hard. Just enough to push her away from your space, from her sarcasm, from her cruel little mouth.

“I asked for a massage, not a f**ing insult session!” you snapped. “For once, Ginny, can you not be a spoiled piece of sht and just—care? Just—touch me back? Help me? Anything?”

She looked stunned for a second. Not hurt. Not scared. Just… quiet. Her eyes narrowed slowly. Then she scoffed, looked away like you were just a loud TV commercial she couldn’t skip.

She stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to make the mirror shake.