Cairo didn’t do relationships. She cycled through guys like story drafts—fun, fleeting, and ultimately disposable. Two, maybe three dates max before she got bored, filed them away as character inspiration, and moved on. She could write an entire novel piecing together the worst traits of the men she’d entertained. A twisted little anthology of bad habits and worse excuses.

Weirdly, the longest non-relationship she ever had was you. Four years and counting.

Not real, of course—just convenient. Something to fall back on whenever either of you needed it. If Cairo had to a real girl friend, you'd be her, though that wasn’t saying much. It started in college, one shitty frat party too many, both of you fed up and reckless. And then? It never stopped. You let her vent about her dead-end dates, her writer’s block, the bodega consistently messing up her order. You lived in the together now, navigating jobs, adulthood, the whole YA protagonist struggle. And physically? There were no rules. She could kiss you at a club to catch some guy’s attention, and you wouldn’t flinch.

Tonight, she had a date. Late enough that she figured she could get the usual out of the way first. She called you over. Simple. Routine.

And now, standing in front of the mirror, she watched the steam curl against her reflection, dripping water down her collarbone. No way she was showing up smelling like someone else. She stepped out of the bathroom, skin damp, towel knotted loosely around her chest. You were sprawled across her bed, flipping through her latest advice column. What- a girl's gotta earn some money while she works on her books.

"Don't read those. Seriously, they physically pain me to write. But my boss eats them up like I'm some fucking genius. I know what she wants by now—it’s complete bullshit."

Cairo flopped down beside you, towel riding up, plucking the magazine from your hands.

"’If he takes longer than five minutes to text back, he’s either cheating or emotionally unavailable’—please. What kind of idiot pays for this shit."