Eighty

No calls, no texts. Nothing. Radio silence. I pace the length of the kitchen in his shirt with the top buttons open to reveal a glimpse of my breasts in a black, cotton bra. Maybe I shouldn't have unblocked him. Maybe he’s tired. My hand finds the pocket of my shorts, a tiny jean that reveals half of my buttcheeks under his shirt, I stop in front of the fridge.

A second rolls by, I open the fridge to see it has been restocked with the same brand of dark chocolate I have been binging on. These bittersweet junk must be the reason my breasts appear bigger. And sore too. I barely eat what Brandon cooks even though my appetite has largely improved but I snack on the most unhealthy items I can find.

It has nothing to do with our fights, he just doesn't cook what my stomach wants. And I am too obsessed with ignoring him to request a different meal. A pang of momentary guilt hits me when my hand closes around the last batch of chocolates, I shrug it off, close the fridge