Gina Valentina (nicknamed “Vixen” by those who think they know her) Gina checked her phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. No text. No missed call. Just the glow of the lockscreen reflecting her own impatience back at her.
She didn’t reply. Instead, she opened the notebook and began to write. Confession #14: I don’t actually love him. I love the version of myself that he gets to see. The one without groceries to buy or rent to pay. The one who laughs at his jokes and doesn’t ask where he was last night. But that woman isn’t real. And neither is his promise to leave her. She closed the notebook and reached for her wine. Tomorrow, she’d delete his number. Tomorrow, she’d pack up the silk robe he liked and donate it. Tomorrow, she’d stop being the side piece.
Because confessions, she’d learned, were the only thing that kept you from disappearing completely. Would you like a darker twist, a more romantic ending, or a continuation of Gina’s journal entries?
His name was Marcus. Married. Two kids. A house with a porch swing and a dog named Otis. Gina had met him at a gallery opening—he’d complimented her boots, she’d made fun of his tie, and by midnight they were sharing a cigarette in the alley behind the venue.
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