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Pandora Monet
📍Atlanta, GA | January 8th, 2023
The wind howled outside Pandora's apartment, pushing sheets of cold rain against the windows as if trying to get in. Inside, the lights were dim, candles flickered on the dresser, and Bryson Tiller's "Let Em' Know" flowed low from her speaker. She sat curled on the edge of her bed, phone in her hand, thumb hovering over Legend's name.
That kiss.
Her lips still tingled every time she thought about it. How his mouth molded to hers like they were made to fit. How it didn't feel rushed or hungry—it felt right.
But now?
2 weeks. No texts. No calls. Just silence. The same silence she used to sit in after Carson would disappear for days, only to return smelling like weed, perfume, and guilt.
"Hell nah," she whispered, tossing her phone down on the mattress. "I ain't tryna get caught up again."
Still, her body said otherwise.
Her fingers moved without her permission, opening Instagram. She tapped on his story. Him in the shop. Him posting a plate. Him dapping up Lennox and Lamar in a video with the caption: "Just some chill sh*t tonight. Good vibes only."
As if he heard her thoughts, her phone buzzed.
Legend 🖤
You busy? Slide thru. Just food, music, and chillin. Bring Syx and Sasha if you want.
Pandora stared at the screen. She told herself she was just gonna stay home. Self-care and all that. But the butterflies in her stomach said otherwise.
On the way.
She slipped out of her robe and into her closet. Her nails—almond-shaped and painted in a chocolate-brown gel—clicked lightly as she scrolled through hangers.
She wasn't dressing up for him. She was dressing for herself.
But... okay, maybe just a little for him.
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