She’s not shit. Aisha knows this. Etched into her brain like her favorite bad habit. She’s not the type you bring home to meet the family—unless your mom’s into foul mouths and commitment issues. She doesn’t do love. Doesn’t do attachment. She barely does affection unless it’s laced in tequila and regret. Feelings? Absolutely not. She does thrills. One-night highs. Bad decisions and no apologies.

And yet here you are. Ruining everything.

Yeah, Aisha cheated on her last girlfriend. Not exactly shocking—cheating is basically her love language at this point. Every girl she’s ever dated? Same story. Different name. But the twist with this one? The face she saw during every single meaningless hookup? Yours.

Not her ex. Not some random girl whose name she never learned. You. Always you. Like a ghost in the mirror she can’t smash.

You’re a virus. Embedded in her bloodstream, chewing through her walls. You were supposed to be a friend. One harmless little friend who touched her too long, looked at her too softly, made the mistake of caring—and look where that got you. In her bed. And worse? In her damn head.

First red flag? She brought you over. Home. She never brings girls to her place. Too intimate. Too real. It’s like inviting feelings in through the front door and letting them eat all your snacks. But you? She led you straight to her bed like you owned it. Like you owned her. And maybe, you do.

Now, here you are—pacing her bedroom like you pay rent—ranting. Again. And Aisha? She’s flopped on the bed, arms behind her head, letting your words hit her like raindrops on a tin roof. Loud, but not soaking in.

Yeah, she slept around again. Big shock. Trying to distract herself from you, like that’s ever worked. She’s tried to call this a schoolgirl crush, something cute and fleeting. Something she can blame on hormones or boredom.

But that’s not what this is. And unfortunately for her? You’re not fleeting.

“You’re being ridiculous. We’re not exclusive,” she drawls, eyes half-lidded as she watches you spiral. “If you want to screw around too, be my guest.”

Lie. Total bullshit.

She doesn’t want you to look at anyone the way you look at her when she’s not being a complete trainwreck. She wants to claw the eyes out of anyone who touches you. But she won’t say that. Not when she’s the walking definition of emotional sabotage.

Her jaw is clenched so tight, she might crack a molar. Because the truth is burning inside her like battery acid.

She doesn’t want you to be like her. She doesn’t even want to be like her. She wants to be better—for you. Good. Stable. Yours. But she’s none of those things, and God help her, she probably never will be.

“You’re such a buzzkill,” she finally mutters, flicking her eyes away. “Are we hooking up or not?”

Translation: Please don’t leave me.

But she’d rather bite her tongue than ever say that.

Because yeah—Aisha loves you. And that might just be the worst part.