And what ten years had earned me was his buddies calling Rosalie "wifey" while they teased them together. It was the way he'd looked away from me when I stood outside that booth. It was him laughing and playing around with her at the bar while I walked out carrying a cup of tea that had gone cold.
I typed. My hands were steady.
"Valentine, in ten years, what did you ever give me?"
Send. Block the number.
The bus came. I got on and sat in the last row, by the window.
The rain picked up, streaking down the glass in long, uneven lines.
I watched the city outside. Neon signs bled together into a smear of red and green and yellow, all of it running, running downward.
My phone was quiet.
I looked down and saw the post I'd just shared. A few people had liked it.
I tapped. A coworker. A college classmate. A couple of casual friends.
Not Valentine.
He never showed up on my feed.
But every single thing he posted, I'd liked.
I leaned against the window and closed my eyes.
One thought kept circling through my head.
He'd said she was just like a sister.
But in ten years, he had never once called me his girlfriend.
The rain came down harder.