I don't know why I got all dressed up, black chiffon and silk, diamond earrings. My high heels are going to look ridiculous on the floor of your apartment, next to your balled up socks and your brother's physics revision notes. It's only your birthday, and we'll probably just end up sitting around playing guitar for each other and pretending like we can't feel that nameless something pressing insistent fingers through the veils of our instincts. You and I are so predictable.

I first met you when the two of you came to live with us for that first dark week after the storm. We all huddled around the windows together those nights, making faces in the candlelight and reeking of drink, our hands making shadows in the panes. The neighbors said they could hear us cursing until dawn, but it just made us laugh louder. We were thieves then.

I remember I woke up one morning with your hand by my face, my hair falling across your pillow, and I knew.

Now I sit here, waiting for the call to come over. It's too late, anyway, and I don't know what I'm holding out for anymore. I'll leave the earrings on, though. I'm still hoping.