𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐍

𝑬𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒐𝒅𝒆 18: "𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏"

୨୧
France, Paris
Maraj home
O.T.M.
──── ୨୧ ────

I sat on my bed, staring at my phone screen. Five messages from Beyoncé, all apologizing, all explaining. I had already read them twice, but I couldn’t help but read them again.

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Mrs. Carter: Onika, I’m so sorry. I never wanted to make you feel this way. Please know that I care about you deeply.

__________

Mrs. Carter: I didn’t realize how important that moment was to you. It hurts me to know I’ve hurt you.

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Mrs. Carter: I don’t want you to think I’m dismissing your feelings. I just wanted to be honest about everything... I’ve been with Shawn for so long, and it’s hard to let go, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you.

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Mrs. Carter: I’ve never felt this way about anyone else, Onika. You mean so much to me, and I don’t want to lose what we have.

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Mrs. Carter: Please, let’s talk. I need to see you, to make things right.

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The words were sincere, deep, and apologetic, dripping with care and thoughtfulness. But they didn’t make me feel better. Not really. I was still hurt, mad, confused. What was I supposed to do with all this? Apologize for feeling what I felt? Act like everything was fine just because she said the right words?

I rolled my eyes and tossed my phone onto the bed, running my hands through my hair. Wasn’t Beyoncé supposed to be spending time with her daughter and husband today? I could feel the bitterness rising in my throat. She wanted to make things right, but she still had a whole life with them. Where did I fit in?

The phone buzzed again, vibrating against the sheets. It was Beyoncé calling this time. I stared at it, my finger hovering over the decline button. My chest tightened as I remembered her saying she didn’t know I was a virgin. I didn’t need to hear more apologies. Not now.

I pressed “decline” and tossed the phone back onto the bed. I closed my eyes, willing the irritation and hurt to fade away, but it clung to me like a weight. The soft hum of the city outside my window filled the room. I could feel my pulse in my temples, thudding with every confused emotion running through my mind.

Just as I was starting to drift, the shrill sound of my alarm clock pierced through the quiet. My eyes shot open, and I groaned, slapping at the clock to silence it. Church. Of course. I had completely forgotten it was Sunday.

Dragging myself out of bed, I slipped on a pair of sweats and shuffled toward my mom’s room. Maybe if I spent time with her, I’d forget about all the chaos in my head.

When I walked into her room, she was already up, reading her book and sipping her morning coffee. The soft glow of the lamp beside her bed illuminated her face, peaceful and serene as she flipped through the pages. I felt a wave of nostalgia wash over me, remembering when I was little, crawling into her bed on Sunday mornings, safe and sound.

“Good morning,” I mumbled, climbing into bed next to her.

“Morning, baby,” she replied, not looking up from her book but lifting her arm so I could snuggle in next to her.

We sat in comfortable silence for a while, her turning pages and me staring blankly at the ceiling, my mind still swirling with thoughts of Beyoncé. My mom took a sip of her coffee and finally glanced down at me, her eyes soft but curious.