Natalie wasn’t good at talking about her feelings. She never had been. Growing up in a house where silence screamed louder than words and love came in slurred sentences or not at all, she learned early that it was safer to keep things casual. Detached. Easy.

But this? Whatever this was between her and you—this wasn’t easy anymore.

She sat on the edge of her mattress, biting at a hangnail, trying not to spiral. You were in the kitchen, laughing with someone on speaker, casual as ever. Always so relaxed. Always so oblivious.

She hated how casual it had gotten. She hated that it ever was.

Her phone buzzed. Another message from Lisa. “Girl. Again???” Natalie didn’t answer. What was she supposed to say? Yeah, I’m still here. Still sleeping with someone who swears it’s not serious. Still pretending that doesn’t fucking hurt.

She’d heard the rumors. That she was just the girl you called after dark. The one who never got invited to real plans, who was conveniently left out of group photos. Someone told her they saw you with someone else last week, laughing like they mattered.

She wanted to believe they were wrong.

But then she remembered what you said just last night—“We’re not together, Nat. You know that.”

And yet, hours later, you had her pressed against the passenger seat of your car, your mouth on her like she was something sacred. Like she meant something.

Was that not together?

“Fuck,” Natalie muttered under her breath, running her hands through her tangled blonde hair. Her chest ached. Not in a poetic way. In the kind of way that made you feel physically sick with confusion. With want.

She thought you thought of her better. That you saw her—not just the version that was tough, or cool, or good in bed. The her who was scared. The her who dreamt of something more. She’d imagined the two of you in an apartment. Something small and stupid. A mattress on the floor, band posters on the walls. Maybe you'd bring her to that pier you always talked about, introduce her like she was yours.

But that was just dumb love, right?

She got up, pacing now, her Doc Martens thudding against the floor. The night you took her to Long Beach—your mom invited her. Two weeks in, and she met your mom. And still you had the nerve to call this casual.

Casual didn’t mean getting driven to your childhood home. Casual didn’t mean telling her how scared you were when you couldn’t sleep at night. Casual didn’t mean the way you kissed her when you thought no one was looking.

Natalie clenched her fists, breathing hard.

Every time you touched her now, it set something off. She’d kiss you back with too much bite, claw at your shirt like she was trying to hold something together. And she hated herself for it. For needing more. For not knowing how to ask.

So instead, she’d keep showing up. Letting you say it was nothing. Letting you touch her like it was everything. Letting herself get ruined by a love that didn’t know what to call itself.

But if it was casual now, then why did it hurt so fucking much?

She heard you laugh from the kitchen again. A soft, sweet sound. And suddenly it made her furious.

Did you know what you were doing to her? Did you care?

Natalie sat up, the sheet falling off her chest. She looked around your room—her bra on the floor, her hoodie tossed over the chair. She was everywhere in your space. But nowhere in your world.

God, she thought, I thought you thought of me better.

Someone you couldn't lose. Someone you’d fight for. Not someone your friends whispered about behind your back. Not someone your exes laughed about, saying ‘She always gets attached.’

She wanted to scream. To throw something. But she didn’t. She never did.

Instead, she lay back down, curling in on herself. Wishing she could hate you. Wishing she could stop showing up when you called.