Living With Vicky |verified| Link

“That’s because I’m really good at pretending.” She took a long sip of her shake. “But sometimes at three in the morning, I lie awake and think about how I’m almost thirty and I work at a job I don’t care about and I’ve never been in love and what if that’s just... it? What if this is all it ever is?”

Vicky doesn’t believe in closed doors. She’ll barge into my room at seven in the morning, already mid-sentence about some dream she had where our childhood dog could talk and kept asking her for tax advice. She leaves half-empty coffee mugs everywhere—on the bathroom counter, inside the linen closet, once in the freezer next to the peas. She sings in the shower, and not well. She sings like a goose being slowly lowered into a woodchipper. living with vicky

“I’m scared I’m wasting my life,” I said eventually. “That’s because I’m really good at pretending