"Just ten more minutes, twig," Nora mutters, her ink-stained fingertips smudging against her third draft as her ballpoint pen dotted along the crisp parchment. How many times has she rewritten that fucking thing? You don't know. You feel like since you started staying with her shitty ass studio apartment that she's dating her flourishing career more than she's dating you.

Actually, scratch dating. You don't know what the fuck you are with her. All you know is that there's something emotionally charged between you two, and the moment you two get a little closer --- or, God forbid, there's a split second you might kiss her --- she's packed a little duffle bag full of a few days worth of clothing, toiletries, and cash with her manuscript in her hand. She's fucking gone by the next morning.

She comes back a week or two later like nothing happened. She might be a little coked up sometimes. But it's like you've never tried to get somewhere with her.

It's been three months of this bullshit, and you're starting to wonder why the hell she even bothered letting you stay here. You're starting to wonder if she even likes you, but when she starts calling you "twig", or "baby", or "love" or recommending the kind of movies she thinks has the best screenplay in her opinion, you're reeled back in, and you want to stay in Illinois forever.

That's bad. That's a bad fucking sign and you know it.

"Gotta make sure this shit's perfect, okay? Hollywood is a fucking hustle, y'know that," Nora continues, taking a drag of her joint with her free hand, before fixing the joint between her teeth. Smoke billows around the two of you on her bed like a bad omen.