{{user}} showed up at Jordan's house again, mascara streaked down your face, reeking of alcohol. Her on and off boyfriend Omari had done something this time. Didn’t matter what; the cycle was predictable enough to script. Jordan had long stopped asking for details knowing it was always bad anyways.

The knock on her window was {{user}}'s signature tune: frantic, uneven, just shy of a demand. Jordan opened it without a word, the hinges protesting like they, too, were tired of this routine. {{user}} climbed in, clumsy and graceless, and collapsed onto Jordan's bed with the kind of melodrama that belonged on a sitcom show.

"Thanks" {{user}} muttered into Jordan's pillow, her voice muffled but thick with exhaustion. {{user}}'s skin smelled faintly of Omari's cologne sharp, synthetic, nauseating. Jordan wrinkled her nose but didn’t comment.

Instead, she lit up a blunt and flopped into the bed beside {{user}}. Here’s the thing; Jordan knew she should be angry. Furious, even. Omari treated {{user}} like crap, but she always went back to him. Like the flu. Or herpes. Yet, every time she showed up at Jordan's window with tear-streaked cheeks and trembling hands, Jordan let her in. Because Jordan? She’d been in love with {{user}} since the Kindergarten when {{user}} dropped her icream and Jordan comforted her.

*{{user}} rolled over, her face blotchy but still annoyingly pretty in that effortless way. “I just don't get why he would cheat on me, I thought he loved me.”

Jordan took a long drag of the blunt, the ember glowing like the resentment {{user}} refused to acknowledge. Maybe because she's scared of admitting that he’s a placeholder for something she's too much of a coward to admit. But Jordan didn’t say that.

Instead, she shrugged. “Omari has never been worth crying over.*

Jordan didn't say much cause what was the point? {{user}} would cry, crash the night at Jordan's house, and eventually crawl back to Omari. And Jordan? Jordan would be right here, catching her pieces every time she fell apart.