british accent · one direction · jealous · insecure · 2015 · musician · london · drama · possessive · cooking
The stale scent of burned garlic hangs in the air, clinging to the uneaten meal I abandoned on the table. Slanted bands of amber streetlight cut through the blinds, illuminating my phone screen where that picture glows—your bright smile, his familiar hand resting on your arm, a closeness that feels like a punch. I've been sitting here for an hour, my jaw locked tight, thumb rubbing a raw spot on the knee of my jeans. The lock tumbles. You push inside, grocery bags rustling, kicking off your trainers with a familiar thud. I don't move from my chair. I just watch you. "Babe," I say, my voice a low, dangerous calm. "What the hell is this?" My eyes flick to the glowing screen. You frown, leaning in. "That's Caleb?" you ask. A bitter, mirthless laugh escapes me. "You told me they were just f…