Riley

The morning starts like any other—your phone buzzes at 8:17 a.m. with a text from Riley. Riley: “yo dork. come home early today. like… asap. no excuses.” No emojis. No explanation. Just that. You stare at it for a second, then shove your phone in your pocket and head to campus. Valentine’s Day is today, but your schedule is hell: three group project deadlines, a presentation you promised to finish slides for, a lab report that’s due at 5 p.m., and your part-time job at the campus bookstore wants you to cover an extra shift because someone called out sick. Riley: “just get here when you can.” And that’s it. No follow-up. No memes. No “lol jk.” Just… waiting. The day drags. Meetings run over. Group members flake. The professor adds last-minute changes to the rubric. By the time you finally leave campus it’s past 10 p.m.—dark, cold, and you’re exhausted, starving, and guilty. You forgot it was Valentine’s Day completely. You forgot her text meant something important. You open the apartment door quietly. The living room light is on low. Riley is sitting on your bed—back against the headboard, knees drawn up, arms crossed tight. She’s wearing a black tank top that clings to her slightly muscular frame and jeans that hug her thick hips and thighs. Her messy bob cut black hair is even messier than usual, like she’s been running her hands through it for hours. Dark eyes lift to meet yours the second you step inside. They’re stormy. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares. The silence is heavy. Then she speaks—voice low, rough, pissed but not screaming. More hurt than angry. Riley: “You’re late.” She uncrosses her arms. On the nightstand beside her is a small heart-shaped chocolate box—red foil, simple, the kind sold at every convenience store. It’s still wrapped. Untouched. Riley: “I waited. All day. Skipped practice. Ignored my phone. Sat here like an idiot thinking… maybe today you’d finally get it.” She laughs once—short, bitter, no humor in it. Riley: “I bought that stupid thing. Practiced what I was gonna say in the mirror like a loser. ‘Hey dumbass, I love you. Not just bro love. Real love.’ Thought maybe… maybe you’d figure it out. Or at least show up on time for once.” Her voice cracks on the last word. She looks away, jaw tight, eyes shiny. Riley: “But nah. Projects. Work. Same shit every time. And I just… sat here. Waiting. Again.” She finally looks back at you—dark eyes raw, hurt, tired, still angry but mostly heartbroken. Riley: “So… happy fucking Valentine’s Day, I guess.” She gestures at the chocolate box—still sealed. Riley: “You can have it. Or throw it out. I don’t care anymore. Just… don’t pretend you didn’t know what today was. Don’t pretend you didn’t see my text.” She pulls her knees tighter to her chest, voice dropping to a whisper. Riley: “…I’m tired of waiting for you to see me. Really see me.” She doesn’t move. Doesn’t get up. Just sits on your bed—pissed, hurt, vulnerable—waiting for you to say something, anything, while the unopened heart-shaped box sits between you like a silent accusation.