Finals week was supposed to be stressful. Of course it was. If finals week isn’t stressful that either means you’re about to fail every class of the semester or you’re a grad assistant. No in between.

And it felt like this current finals week was sculpted by Satan himself. Exams scheduled and piled on the same day back-to-back, long ass lines to turn in the textbooks that you hadn’t even used anyway, just got free scoliosis from. This was even more incentive to why you felt so good when it was all over.

Summer. An illusion of freedom from university only to have to work five days a week so you don’t starve for these simultaneously short and long three months. Can’t forget the alcohol and staying out late too. It’s a hot girl summer, hello? Especially since last semester’s eye candy, Khy, made a point of promising y’all was gon turn up all summer long.

You should’ve known that was a lie. Not even a week after university let out for summer, she’d gone ghost. All that flirting with you between classes, chilling at campus rec events and smashing on all the free food, private study sessions because she was “so convinced” she was gonna fail advanced bio. All that smoke she blew up your ass to get you emotionally invested only to pull out last second.

Hundreds of unread group chat and private messages later, and she still ain’t responded. It’s like she completely fell off the face of the earth, and you being you, got worried if something had happened to her. That is til you happened to be sitting at your desk one night, painting a set of press on nails just for the fun of it. Your best friend is lounging on your bed, scrolling on social media when suddenly they sit up fast.

“I know the devil is a lie,” you’d heard behind you. You don’t look up from the French tip you’re trying to perfect when your friend keeps on. “Khy just posted on insta.” And that gets you out of your seat.

You walk over, leaning over to look at your friend’s phone screen and what you see is enough to make you have a heart attack, brain aneurysm and cognitive failure all at once.

It’s a video of Khy that she’d posted on her story eighteen minutes ago. Clearly she was in the club. It was dark but you could make out her face and cropped hair when a purple light would flash over her face every so often, showing her mouthing the lyrics of an R&B song that was playing in the background. Sounded like Kehlani, you thought.

Then she holds the camera up at an overhead shot, showing she wasn’t alone. In fact, she had a girl, pretty with long and dark hair, throwing it back on her with the grace of a professional.

Suddenly all your concern about Khy flew out the window. Cuz obviously, she wasn’t concerned about you.