Mimeomia

02 | highfalutin

CHAPTER TWO

HIGHFALUTIN

( — (especially of speech, writing, or ideas) pompous or pretentious. )

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:⠀ *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆

          TUESDAY STARTS OFF LIKE ANY OTHER DAY. Michaela gets up at six in the morning, showers, does Pilates, eats breakfast, gets dressed, brushes her teeth, and leaves the house by seven-thirty. Though Ginny plans her own day like anyone else, Michaela also likes routines, which might explain why she was never much of a fan of surprise parties when she was younger.

          Everything seems normal as she leaves her apartment, but, when she pulls her phone out of her coat's pocket to check why in the world it's buzzing, the answer throws her off. She's used to being bombarded with emails from Union Daily, especially from the advertisement department, and she marks those as read without actually opening them, but the notifications are from Instagram.

          She regrets opening the app as soon as she clicks the notifications tab. Several people have tagged her in the comments of some celebrity post, an account known for, well, posting news and candids of celebrities, and she'd recognize the person in that thumbnail anywhere.

          It's been two years, but he looks eerily identical—as exhausted as he was the last time she saw him, which is the worst part of it all, considering he took a break from public life to, hopefully, get some rest. When she opens the post, already sitting inside her car, her heart jumps and she's awfully glad she's not driving.

          His hair is longer, that's for sure, seemingly pulled back, with Michaela remembering how she used to urge him to cut it, but he would just pull it up into a bun to mimic hers. He hasn't shaved in what looks like an eternity—he once did No Shave November, and the press had a lot of fun documenting the evolution of his facial hair—though it probably has only been a week, or so. The silver watch around his left wrist is the exact one she gave him for his twenty-fifth birthday, four years ago. She turned twenty-two the following day and still wears the gold necklace he gave her.

          She's wearing it right now, scrolling down the comments of the post. Most of them are from fans, reminding everyone of how much they missed him and it's great to see him go out again, even if it's just at an airport and carrying his bag behind him. They've tagged her in it, commenting #Linchaela and letting her know he's alive and well, but she hesitates before doing anything, with a bitter taste lingering in her mouth.

          Anything she does or says might spark several rumors about whether they're back together or not, and she doesn't want to risk it. Maybe he met someone else and is in a happy relationship unlike her, who's still awfully bitter over it all.

          Seeing him comment pardon, in response to someone asking the public to go tell Michaela about the post, is the last straw. She closes the app, blocks her phone, and stuffs it into her purse before starting the car and driving off. It's always stressful to be a part of a celebrity's personal life and it's even worse to date them; you get dragged into their world and everyone expects you to be able to deal with everything, from the rumors to the mean comments.

          The worst part is that that's all you are to them—you're a person who's dating a celebrity. Your accomplishments, your talents, your identity are all ignored in favor of your relationship status. Michaela was no longer a talented editor working for Union Daily or the girl who had graduated at the top of her class in Yale; she was just Lincoln Calloway's girlfriend and all they cared about was the size of her jeans, whether she was pregnant or not and when they were getting married.