I do. Because I’m weak. And because powdered sugar is love.
He feeds it to me, slow and careful.
Powder sticks to my lips. He reaches up and brushes it off with his thumb. Doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t say anything.
I chew. Swallow. Lick the sugar off my lips. “You’re dangerous,” I whisper.
He picks up the soda, cracks it open, and holds the straw out for me like this is just a thing we do now. Feral fucking. Donuts. Devastation.
God help me, I sip.
What is this? What the fuck is this?
And why do I want another donut?
Journal Entry #8
Thursday August 5th
(yes I know it’s Friday shut up)
Therapy Journal
Dear Rhys,
Okay, so. You clearly know why I’m just now getting to this. I was in jail. Like, real jail. With a jumpsuit and a woman named Destiny who offered me a tit-warmed Pop-Tart. But sure, let’s talk about boundaries.
This entry’s supposed to be about the chaos trio, the heartbreak buffet, and how I’m practicing healthy engagement or whatever. So. Here we go.
I have a huge surprise for you tonight (yes, tonight as in Friday night, stay with me), and you are going to faint. Like swoon-faint. Is it boundary-appropriate? Absolutely not. Did I stalk you to get the information required to plan it? Obviously. And did I break a few laws to make it happen? I don’t think they count unless anyone presses charges. But I feel like if you really zoom out and squint, it’s kind of thoughtful. Like... growth-adjacent.
Also, since I was in custody during actual Thursday, this entry doesn’t include what just happened with Jett. Which is honestly rude. So this is basically a placeholder until I can do a proper post-class emotional unpacking tonight. Expect drama.
Also Jett and Benji are hanging out now. Just casually bonding. Without supervision. About me. Probably forming some unholy alliance or support group. Which, again, deserves its own breakdown tonight.
Anyway. Jail really messed up my whole reflection schedule.
Rhys Journal
Keeping it short so you don’t accuse me of boundary violations (again).
See you tonight. I’m wearing glitter lotion and very little shame.
Benji Journal
I love you. Like, actually. Not fake love or performance love or manic-pixie-borderline love. Real. Scary. Sticky. Heart-screaming love.
Jett told me you bailed him out. That’s huge. That’s absurd. That’s “sharing your last donut hole even though it’s the powdered sugar kind” love.
That’s the kind of thing people do when they’re not just surviving each other.
I love that for you two. For us. For whatever this is turning into.
But it’s terrifying too. Because what if you fall for him? Or what if he becomes your best friend and I’m suddenly the chaotic side chick with abandonment issues and a court record?
What if I ruin it, this, everything?
I don’t want to lose you. I want to deserve you. I want to be the person you still choose, even when we all stop being shiny and new and start showing each other the bruises underneath.
