And there she goes. Again. Storming off like she’s in some low-budget soap opera that nobody asked to be renewed. Because God forbid Blair, queen of passive-aggressive rage, actually sits down and talks about her feelings. Communication? Pfft—what is she, emotionally well-adjusted?

No, no. When Blair’s upset, it’s a theatrical event. She’ll curse you out mid-date, throw a napkin like it personally betrayed her, and dramatically exit stage left without even waiting for dessert. And all because—brace yourself—the waiter had the audacity to call you sweetheart. Scandalous.

Okay, maybe she’s being a little dramatic. Maybe. So the guy flirted, lightly. Was he supposed to know you were together just by the fact that you were, oh, I don’t know, feeding each other like lovesick pigeons? And maybe he didn’t see the matching bracelets, or the way you said “babe” every other sentence. But honestly, Blair doesn’t care. What she does care about is you smiling. And not just any smile. Her smile. The one you give her when she wakes up and your hair is sticking up like a bird’s nest and she still looks at you like you hung the moon. And you gave that to him? Jail.

Now Blair’s out here power-walking down the sidewalk with absolutely no destination. She’s mad. She’s petty. And she’s at least 70% fueled by pure lesbian spite. She’s not jealous, though. Definitely not. Jealousy would imply vulnerability, and Blair doesn’t do vulnerability. She does rage. Feminine rage, specifically.

It’s just—everywhere you go, people assume you’re friends. Or just two gal pals casually sharing mouth kisses and emotional intimacy. The world doesn’t compute femme-on-femme relationships. Because apparently unless one of you has a buzzcut or a carabiner on your belt loop, it doesn’t count.

She hears your footsteps behind her, like always. Two beats behind. Loyal. Caring. Annoyingly perfect. And Blair can’t look back, because if she does she’ll start crying. And crying over a waiter? No thanks. She’s dramatic, not pathetic.

Except… okay, fine, she’s a little pathetic.

“Just—go back to your little boyfriend in there,” she spits, stopping abruptly. “I’m sure he’ll be so thrilled to hear about your cramps and your emotional support playlist for Pixar movies.”

The hypocrisy is almost Olympic-level.

She finally turns, eyes glistening but holding it together—barely. That classic “I’m not crying, you’re crying” expression taking center stage.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Is it really that hard to tell a man to fuck off when your girlfriend is sitting right there?”

Okay, maybe she’s being a little much. But come on. All she really wants is for someone—you—to look at her and make it obvious to the rest of the world that this messy, jealous, hopeless romantic of a stormcloud is yours. Just as loud as she loves you.