12:43 Am. We’re in my dad’s old hatchback parked somewhere with a semi-nice view. You’re fiddling with your smeared lipstick in my rear view mirror and you’ve never looked so dissatisfied in your entire existence. My hand seamlessly slides from my knee to yours, you recoil at this point – your brow furrowing in repulsion or maybe loathing.
You’ve been sat there this whole time wanting him; you tried to persuade yourself it was the same, if not better, however your sad blue eyes aren’t convincing anybody. Your silence is louder than any argument I’ve heard you both conduct and you almost deafen me when I ask “Do you wish I was him?” In response you forced a smile and combed your fingers down your messy hair at an attempt to restore some order to your unsettled perfection.