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To Being Ghosted, Guilty, and Going Back to the Gym

Post author By Aliah Washington
Post date December 7, 2025
1 Comment on To Being Ghosted, Guilty, and Going Back to the Gym

How Getting Ghosted Jumpstarted My Villain Arc

So, I got ghosted this week. Kind of. Like I did, but then I didn’t? Just allow me to take you guys on the rollercoaster of a week I had.

Dec 1st, 2025

To not completely dox the guy I am going to be talking about, we are going to refer to him as “Devil”. (yes, him)

Devil and I had been on and off for two years until this September when we started talking again (Count one, guilty). Everything was going well between us—consistent. So much so that in November we decided to be exclusive. My mom even knows about him.

“Are you going to see Devil?” she would always ask whenever I came to her house. He became a household name.

“Are you going to invite Devil to Thanksgiving?” my stepdad, Perry, asked one time. I didn’t, of course. I didn’t feel comfortable bringing any man home until I was officially their girlfriend. I’m glad I stood firm on that belief because it would’ve been awkward trying to tell my parents that the guy they just met on Thanksgiving ghosted me not even a week later.

—————-

The night before, I had asked Devil to tell me all the things he liked about me. I’m a girl who loves to hear why you enjoy my presence. My words of affirmation girls can understand.

I liked Devil, a lot.
He was funny, adventurous, and interesting. I enjoyed our dates, the sex was good, and sometimes I felt like he just gets me.

His Kryptonite? Emotionally unavailable. My seven-year-old nephew is better at expressing himself.

Getting Devil to open up is like pulling teeth.

Asking him that question, I knew that whatever I wanted to hear, he wasn’t going to say (Count two, guilty).

But, nonetheless, I asked. And waited.

And waited.

I texted him again, and explained that he just wants to make sure his responses is “loaded.”

I didn’t hear from him again that whole night.

That Monday morning (Dec 1st), he texted me, “Good morning.”

Because I was upset by his lack of response, I decided not to respond right away. I was upset, and rightfully so; I didn’t care. I decided to be petty and wait a couple of hours.

When I finally did respond, I told him why I was upset and why I didn’t respond—how it made me feel rejected.

Then I waited for his response.

And waited.

At this point, it’s been three hours. At one point, I thought he died until I saw him repost a video on TikTok.

So, I called him.

Did he answer? No.

I thought to myself, he’s probably upset because I responded late to his text. (Count three, guilty)

December 2nd, 2025

“I think I’m getting ghosted.”

It’s 3 p.m., I’m at work, and I still haven’t heard from Devil. This was the first morning in four months where I didn’t get a ‘Good Morning’ text on my phone.

I assumed he woke up mad still, but it’s almost midday and I still haven’t heard from him.

I was talking to my co-worker, Austin, who was by no means the perfect person to tell your relationship troubles to. But, I was anxious, and I needed to talk to someone, quick.

Austin kept telling me that he probably cut me off for another girl, which did not calm my nerves, so thank you again, Austin. My stomach turned into knots just at the thought of it. My gut was telling me that, that wasn’t the case. But my brain couldn’t rationalize any other reason for his disappearance.

By 3:06 PM, I texted him again.

“What is your problem? Why aren’t you answering any of my calls or texts??“

By 8 PM, I was home, drunk, cooking, blasting Rico Nasty, and there was still no response from Devil.

I was angry, hurt, and confused.

Three glasses of wine later, (that I spiked with Patron) I decided that he will hear from me, one way or another.

I called him four times, one of which I called using *67.

Still, no response.

He was definitely ignoring me. It wasn’t like he was dead or anything (even though a small part of me hoped he was).

I reread our last conversation over and over.

Did I really miss something? What could I possibly have said to provoke such an extreme reaction? The last time we hung out was November 29th. I was at his house, just finishing wrestling (if you know, you know), and we were playing those games on YouTube where you guess the theme song of a TV show.

Literally my dream date.

My mind couldn’t grasp that he was ghosting me. It just didn’t make sense.

After all this time, did I mean nothing to him?

December 3rd, 2025

Waking up that morning, I felt empty.

Last night, on my fourth glass of wine and a smoke session with my sister, everything that I was trying not to feel wrapped me in a hug.

Getting ready for work felt like getting ready for World War II.

My sister was getting ready for the day, and I questioned if I should tell her what’s been going on between Devil and me.

A part of me didn’t want to say anything last night during our smoke session for the small chance that he’ll text me and say that it was a misunderstanding. After sitting on it for a minute, I realized that I needed to say something, or I’m going to feed and encourage the delusion.

“Devil ghosted me,” I said softly to Maleah.

Her eyes widened, and she immediately came to my side, “What happened?” she asked.

I told her how I hadn’t heard from him and that he’s alive and well, just ignoring me.

I knew telling Maleah meant there was no point of return for Devil and me. Maleah was all about revenge.

“Fuck him, want to get his page deleted?” She suggested.

I wanted to tell her I would much rather she find a way for him to text me. Instead, all I said was “yes.”

Our friend and roommate Kay, who also got into an argument with her boyfriend— it was a stupid argument, but it was enough for her to join me in my bundle of emotions: rage, confusion, and hurt.

In the end, we agreed that evil women need to be on the rise.

“We entered a flow state of hating niggas” Kay expressed as she was pacing back and forth.

At work, I couldn’t focus on anything.

Devil ghosted me.

I had Maleah and Kay report devils instagram page from both their main and spam accounts. I needed to do something. Something that would disrupt his peace, as he did mine.

At work, I did absolutely nothing.

Instead, I put his number under every spam notification he could receive from anywhere.

Scientology, the Navy, healthcare quotes, car quotes, the military.

I even made a request for Jehovah’s Witnesses to make a visit to his house that Saturday afternoon.

He obviously didn’t have any morals.

He wanted to ignore my texts and calls? Fine.

Now he’d have to ignore the calls/texts from 60 different sites I found.

December 4th, 2025

That day, I finally decided to get out of my funk. I told myself I was going back to the gym to do a full reset. Before doing that, I was curious to understand why people ghost.

I asked my friend Daija if she had ever been ghosted or if she had ever ghosted anyone.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been ghosted, and if I did, then I didn’t like them enough.”

She explained that she has ghosted a lot of people.

“When I end up ghosting someone, it’s because I know it won’t go anywhere or they’re really weird, and I’d rather not have that conversation with them and then they start bashing me, like Blake.”

Blake was a guy Daija dated for maybe for a week or two. By that second week, we found out that he had also dated a friend of mine.

“Or your gay friend Cole,” she said.

Cole was not gay, and his name was Collin.

Was ghosting now the norm? The safe option when wanting to end things was someone else’s worst nightmare.

“I low key ghosted Braden also, but he ghosted me first.”

Braden was the first evil light skin to be created, I am sure of it.

He would essentially do the push-pull method. One minute he was all about Daija, showing and giving affectionate and then the next minute, he’d ghost her.

She showed me a screenshot of one of the last things she sent to him.

“On your life, I hate you”

Men really know how to strike a nerve and get you to do and say the most evil things.

I decided to ask my other friend—let’s call her Zee—the same question.

She ghosted many people because of bad hangouts, boredom, or until she felt like they weren’t convenient to her anymore. She wanted to make it known that for the people she ghosted, there was no emotional connection between her and those who were ghosted.

“Have you been ghosted before?” I asked her.

She said “Yes.” When she got ghosted, she was in denial.

“They can’t be ghosting me,” she said.

The first stage of being ghosted? Being in denial.

I asked her why she thinks people in our age group always resort to ghosting, rather than communicating that they are now uninterested.

“I think it’s convenient. There are too many steps to commitment. The structure of dating has made it so efficient to disappear. Because there are no labels, you can feel better walking away because that wasn’t your boyfriend.”

“Do you think we will ever get to that point in our generation, where ghosting someone will become taboo?” I asked.

Almost everyone I know has ghosted someone or had been ghosted. Or both.

Even as I am writing this, I have ghosted a few people before. How come everyone in their 20s believes that ghosting someone is easier than telling the person they are talking to that they want to end things? When did we let fear drive our love lives?

“No, there is too much grey area. It’s too normalized. People aren’t even in situationships; they have made it to humiliation-ships. There are too many non-relationships.”

Was she right?

Is this our generation’s future when it comes to dating?

Send the flood.

December 5th, 2025

I was at the gym when a close male friend called me.

Let’s call him Umar.

I asked him the same question I asked Zee and Daija.

“Have you ever been ghosted and/or have you ever ghosted someone?”

I wanted to get a man’s opinion on this topic. (Count four, guilty)

“A bitch ain’t never ghosted me let’s s start there!” he said. Very on brand.

“How many people have you ghosted?”

“This year?” he questioned.

Divas, we are doomed.

“Ghosting is such a weird term; if we’ve only been texting for three days, why am I explaining to you that I don’t like you at all?” he explained.

“Have you ghosted someone with whom you were emotionally invested?” I asked.

“I ghosted this girl about a month ago because we were supposed to hook up, and then she got out of the shower, bent over, and it just stunk. I got out of that situation and went home,” he said.

I didn’t know what I expected to hear, but it wasn’t that.

He went on to explain that she was very cool, but her getting out of the shower and still having a body odor was just something he couldn’t get over.

Did Umar make the right call? Was this one of the few times it was appropriate to ghost someone?

He said that was the longest he had talked to someone before ghosting them.

I asked if any of his male friends ghosted anyone.

“Yeah, a lot of times, the girls think that they are ‘the one’ after a month or two, and they start losing their marbles. They end up scaring the guy off.”

I started to wonder at what point should girls feel like they are ‘the one’ if the two-month mark is too early.

Personally, I want to tell a man I love him after going out for two weeks. Have I done it? Of course not.

How should women know if they are the one if the man doesn’t say it? Is the silence their answer?

“Why do you think ghosting is normalized in our generation?” I asked him.

“It’s so easy to get in contact with somebody. In our parents’ generation, if they didn’t want to see someone or deal with them, it was a lot easier to get rid of them. In our generation, we all have phones. It’s easier to get in contact with someone now than before. So getting rid of a woman is harder.“

He then goes on to say, “Now you got FaceTime, get your homegirl to call him, she can get you on Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, she can call your momma. Friday night she can pop up at the club looking for you.”

“I also feel like we’re not the generation to talk much; we’re not into explaining ourselves. It’s too vulnerable. We don’t even dance in the club anymore. We’re not comfortable expressing ourselves. So a lot of times, if we don’t want to deal with certain things anymore, we choose to just not talk anymore,” he finally says.

I asked him if a man ghosts a woman after they have been dating for four months, what should the woman do. Was this question about me? Yes.

Sue me. I’m mourning.

“4 months? Oh, I’m not gonna lie, I might lose my play card about that one. I need to know now, that’s four months—120 days. I know you a little bit now.”

Should I just say fuck it and lose my play card? Spam call him or pop up at his house?

December 6th, 2025

That morning, my conversations with Austin, Daija, Zee, and Umar hung in the air like a black cloud.

I needed to know why.

So, I went on Instagram, unblocked Devil, and texted him. (Count five, guilty)

Me: Can you just tell me what happened?

Me: Was there another girl or something? I just want to know what made you not say ANYTHING for five days. I will not bother you anymore.

The last line was a lie, but he didn’t have to know that.

After 30 minutes, there was no response.

He is just that evil, I thought to myself.

Until, a notification from Instagram came to my phone.

It was him. He had finally said something.

He explained that he couldn’t think of more reasons to answer the question I asked him the night before he decided to turn into Casper.

Me: So you’re telling me because you couldn’t think of an answer, you decided to ignore me for five days? Not return any of my texts or calls?

Him: Yes

Me: What the fuck is wrong with you?

I was so angry it felt like I couldn’t even type. I had completely forgotten that at the big age of twenty-seven, the big two seven, 27, his emotional capacity was that of a 4-year-old.

I would’ve preferred there was another girl involved. At least that would make sense.

Him: You should find someone who can fulfill what you need from a partner. I know we said we’ll take it slow, but I don’t want to weigh down your time by being indecisive.

Duh.

I mean, the absolute nerve of him. As if he hadn’t wasted the past 5 days. It was all he was good for.

I told him I didn’t understand him ghosting me and watching me reach out for communication, constantly meeting me with silence.

Him: I didn’t want to deal with whatever the aftermath of that would have been.

Me: You mean you didn’t want to deal with the consequences of your own actions?

He replied, “not yet.”

I officially lost my cool. I just couldn’t contain the anger.

I told him how he didn’t want to own up to his actions and instead of being a man and talking to me like we’re grown fucking adults, he ignored me like a child.

“We been texting and seeing each other for four months straight and you randomly ignore me? That was your solution? Because you couldn’t use your words? Or was scared of my reaction? Grow the fuck up, seriously.

I don’t know when exactly I finally hit a nerve with him; maybe it was when I questioned his masculinity or age. Regardless, I struck something because he immediately told me, “You got it, Bye Aliah,” and blocked me.

Honestly, I felt so much better. Grateful, even. I knew what he was before we started “dating,” but not to this extent. He was a man-child. Shout out to Sabrina, for real.

December 7th, 2025

This whole week felt fake. As I was going through it emotionally, physically I’ve been up. I started eating more clean, like I eat turkey bacon now??

I’ve been to the gym every day and been running on the treadmill, like don’t play.

In the beginning of the week, I was heartbroken and confused. Now that we are at the end, I feel grounded and sure. I didn’t miss out on anyone that wasn’t for me.

Devil was not my person. And that’s okay, great even. I needed him to mess up one more time for me to finally let go.

My friend Olivia told me that sometimes you have to keep going back to a man to finally let him go.

Was she right? Yes.

Will that be the theme of my love life? No.

Next year I turn 25 and there are some things that I just simply won’t allow anymore.

To my Ballads who have been ghosted or got their heart broken this year, I challenge you guys to fill your own cup. Go to the gym, make more money, spend time with your friends, and choose you.

And don’t ghost people!!!!!! Unless you want them to write about you in their Blog (Count six, guilty)

Love, Aliah 💕

Tags books, dating, fiction, ghosts, humor, relationships, romance, short-story, writing

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I Think I Fumbled My Future Husband

Post author By Aliah Washington
Post date May 24, 2025
No Comments on I Think I Fumbled My Future Husband

And the dating pool? Full of piss and piranhas

I think I’m ready to date again.

I wish I could say that enthusiastically—truly. But the dating scene right now is terrible. The dating pool not only has piss in it, but also piranhas.

I haven’t been on a date since July 2024, and I haven’t dated anyone since November 2023. My love life has been ridiculously dry. Ain’t no one on this phone but SHEIN updates.

But I wasn’t mad at it. Since November—when Devil completely demolished my heart (iykyk)—I took my time of solitude to really reassess my dating life.

One of my favorite artists, Olivia Rodrigo, once talked about her writing process for the song Favorite Crime—which, by the way, I totally trauma-bonded with.

She explained that it’s easy to place the blame on the other person for breaking your heart, but it’s hard to recognize and admit that you played a hand in breaking your own.

And after that breakup in November, I did just that.

The Problem with Dating Now

I became desensitized to the idea of dating. My interest in men took a massive decline. No one piqued my interest. I became restless when it came to my love life.

I tried to put myself out there and talk to a few different men, but I felt… nothing.

Eventually, I started dating this guy—let’s call him Smiles. He graduated college, was tall, nice, opened my car doors, always greeted me with flowers—a complete gentleman…

But he did nothing for me.

The Aidan vs. Mr. Big Effect

I felt like Carrie when she was dating Aidan.

I was so used to dating the Mr. Big archetype that when my Aidan finally came around, I couldn’t even appreciate him.

I felt like a dumb bitch. I felt like I was betraying the universe—like this was their gift to me, and I completely disregarded it.

Triggers I Didn’t Expect

I remember having Smiles over at my apartment after one of our dates. We were watching TV, talking, and at one point, he wrapped his arm around me.

And I tensed up—so quickly. I didn’t even know why at first.

The last time I let a man touch me so innocently, so gently, was with Devil. It was the first time I was allowing a man to physically get close to me again.

And all he was doing was putting his arm around me.

I tried to ignore it.

I told myself it had just been a minute. I’d been touch-deprived for months—I just needed to ease into it.

By this time, it was April. Five months since I broke things off with Devil. I thought I was ready.

Boy, was I wrong.

It wasn’t until Smiles pulled me closer and kissed me. I kissed him back… and three seconds later, I started crying.

I literally had to suck the tears that were threatening to fall back into my eyelids.

I didn’t even know why I was crying.

Luckily, he didn’t notice—because honestly, I would not have known how to explain that.

And if that wasn’t bad enough…

He offered to give me head.

And I declined.

WHO DECLINES FREE HEAD????

And no shade, but it looked like he could eat.

He eventually ended up leaving, and we made plans for our next date. The minute I closed the door after walking him out, I cried.

At the time, I genuinely thought I was ready to date again. But after that encounter, I realized just how wrong I was.

I knew I had to cut things off with Smiles—but I didn’t know how.

The Self-Sabotage Begins

I was doing that thing that men do when they tell you, “I’m not looking for anything serious, but I would like to keep seeing you.” #WomenInMaleFields

So, going against my better judgment, I decided to keep dating Smiles.

We texted almost every day. I still went on dates with him—though he wanted to see me way more than I wanted to see him.

I was determined to make this work.

It had to work.

I wasn’t sure when a guy like him would come around again. He was like a rare jewel.

But since we’re family here, I’ll be honest.

Yes, he was a sweet gentleman…

But was he my type?

He was funny, I guess. But physically?

He wasn’t my type.

Yes, he was tall. Yes, he had some tattoos. But he wasn’t bad.

You know what I mean—he wasn’t fine shyt

Still, a part of me felt obligated to give it a shot because I thought I deserved to be with a guy like that.

A guy who planned dates.

A guy who always opened the car door and greeted me with flowers.

I’ve yearned for that kind of love.

But… nothing in me ached for him.

He didn’t make me laugh.

I wasn’t fully attracted to him.

When he kissed me, I felt absolutely nothing.

He just wasn’t it.

And it pissed me off.

You’d think that after dating the literal Devil, I would leap into the arms of my knight in shining armor.

But Thankfully… I’m Not Totally Carrie

I actually talked to Smiles. I told him how I felt.

I explained that I had just gotten out of a relationship where the wounds were still fresh—still open. That he was the first person I’d even considered seeing since that, and I still needed more time.

Do I think he heard every word that came out of my mouth? Yes.

Do I think it mattered to him? No.

Because right after that, he pulled me into a hug and kissed me again—this time more passionately. Like a loving kiss could somehow erase the fact that the last guy I dated lied to me for six months and was also seeing a girl who did coke and ketamine.

Did I kiss him back to try and match the tension and passion? Yes.

Did I hate every second of it? Absofuckinglutely.

The Breakup Text

Eventually, I moved back home. Physically, I was away from him.

But we still texted every day.

And when he started asking for my address, asking what days he should travel to come see me—I knew it was time.

The guilt kept rising because I knew I was leading him on.

So I did what every woman hates when a man does it to avoid commitment:

“Hey Smiles, I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship. I need to focus on myself and figure out what I want.”

Again, Women In Male Fields.

If you’re reading this and want to choke slam me through the screen, I completely understand.

And if you’re reading this and want to extend grace, hit my line—because I’ve got a few more stories I need to share.

As I’m typing this, almost a year since my “relationship” with Smiles, I wish I could say I regret it. Or that I want to reach out.

But I don’t.

Maybe nice guys do finish last.

Maybe it was the right person at the wrong time.

Or maybe… we just weren’t compatible.

Trying to make something work just because it feels like it should doesn’t mean it will.

The minute I had to force it was the minute I should’ve pulled back.

But come on, y’all would’ve done it too—for a check.

Since Smiles… nothing.

I haven’t dated anyone since him. (Went on one date after him but I refuse to talk about that story until my lawyers are present.)

It’s been a year and some change now.

I don’t know if I’ll ever be “100%” ready to date again—but I’m pretty damn close.

I didn’t even realize I was craving romantic love until I had a dream that I had a boyfriend.

A man I’ve never even met.

Like it’s gotten so bad in the real world, the universe had to bless me in my subconscious. Literally throwing me a bone.

So if you’re single right now, let this be our season.

Date. Explore your options.

What’s the worst that could happen?

We get demoralized by a man’s actions?

Literally nothing new.

I’m excited to take y’all on this ‘dating’ journey.

And let’s pray I don’t run into any more Devils because y’all will have to start a go fund me for my bail.

Till next time, my lovely Ballads💕

Tags dating, humor, love, relationships, romance, situationship, writing

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He Wasn’t Ready For A Relationship-Just Ready to Waste My Time

Post author By Aliah Washington
Post date April 26, 2025
No Comments on He Wasn’t Ready For A Relationship-Just Ready to Waste My Time

I was talking to this guy for THREE MONTHS — consistently. Y’all, when I say we were locked INN, the key was thrown away. It was giving Bonnie and Clyde.

We met right before the semester ended, and just my luck — I had to go home for the summer. We saw each other twice and promised we’d keep in touch until I came back that fall. I was devastated, cursing the universe, because of course they introduced me to a guy right when I had to leave.

He was cute, tall, funny, had great music taste, and was a complete gentleman — all the ingredients to make a girl fall to her knees (literally and figuratively).

We said we’d “keep in touch” when I went home, but honestly, I didn’t think he was serious.

Until we did.

Texting every other day turned into texting every day, which turned into texting every minute. Add in the spontaneous late-night phone calls, and yeah… it was giving boyfriend.

Y’all, this was quite literally my man.

I remember he went out of town with his homeboys, and he was still texting and calling me — even collecting seashells to bring back when we reconnected. I was down bad for this man.

Fast forward to the fall — I’m back. I was excited, nervous, feeling like I was in high school again.

The first day I got back, we saw each other, and everything fell right back into place. We bounced off each other so naturally; our energies just synced — if you’re picking up what I’m putting down.

But… something felt a little off.

Not about him necessarily, but about the relationship. I didn’t feel any urgency from him to make me his girlfriend. At this point, we’d been talking for three months. Technically, we weren’t long-distance anymore, but still — no move to make things official.

I ignored my woman’s intuition (highly don’t recommend) and went against my better judgment. For about two weeks, I tried to act like I didn’t already know:

This nigga not gone make me his girlfriend.

But I am my mother’s child, so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I remember it clearly.

We had just come from his basketball game and went back to his house to… tussle. And afterwards, I asked the question:

“What are we?”

Heart beating out of my chest but holding my ground, I waited, anticipating his next word.

“Uhhh, well… you know, we friends.”

Loading the gun.

I was sitting cross-legged on his bed, pondering the right response to his answer.

“Just friends?” I asked.

“I mean, not just friends, but you’re cool and we really get along. But I’m not ready for a relationship.”

Pull the trigger.

The inevitable had finally arrived.

To say the least, the ride back to my apartment — so he could drop me off — was silent.

I wish I could say I immediately cut him off after that, but y’all, I’m just a girl and nothing but a girl.

I tried to have a casual relationship with him, but my heart couldn’t withstand it. I lasted about a month before finally telling him I couldn’t keep doing it. Of course, he understood, apologized, and we parted ways… until I had an itch only he could scratch.

But still, I can never forget the complete switch-up.

And the sad thing? It’s so common among women.

Talking to a guy, seeing him consistently, maybe even having sex with him — and then a few months in, he hits you with the story about how he got heartbroken at 16 and just can’t commit again.

It makes me want to go outside, pick a tree up, and throw it.

Obviously, we’re left with a broken heart — but the time wasted?? Inexcusable.

And the healing process is excruciating, because you’re not just mourning the relationship.

You’re mourning the potential of the relationship.

All that could’ve been.

The future you thought you were building

I remember I was 18, seeing a co-worker/friend who had already told me he wasn’t ready for a relationship.

I told him we should just stay friends, because deep down I knew — I was setting myself up for failure.

Two goddamn weeks later, he ups and gets himself a girlfriend.

Guys, stay with me when I say this…

Prison.

I was salty, to say the fucking least.

Maybe some men get a kick out of being cruel — I don’t know. Maybe they think being honest would get them stoned or nailed to a cross.

But hey, what do I know, right?

Although I’m not currently dating now, when I was, it definitely got easier to spot the ones who just wanted to waste my time… and the ones who were…

No yeah, still there to waste my time.

Someone could argue that I’m just looking in the wrong places.

And I could argue that we revisit that prison conversation.

But seriously, if you’re a lover girl like me, when you like someone — you like someone.

It consumes you.

When I like someone, it feels like I’m going through a psychosis.

It’s why I can never fully hate Carrie for how she handled her relationship with Mr. Big.

When you fall for someone, you don’t just fall.

You tumble.

You crash.

You plummet.

And it sucks even more when you’re at that stage with someone, and you’re not even official yet.

You get that false sense of hope, that false union with this person.

So when they finally utter those God-forsaken words, it feels like they grabbed a gun and shot you in the heart. (Graphic, I know.)

What’s even more devastating?

After they break your heart — or shoot you, at this point it’s the same thing — they try to “tend” to your needs… with the gun still in their hands.

And because we’re hurt, and wounded, we accept the aftercare.

We might even agree to some negotiations, because we’re not ready to let go of the relationship — or the person — completely.

Especially when they still want access to you.

It’s ludicrous.

And if you were a masochist like me, you obliged — because you didn’t know any better.

I like dating and having different experiences, because unfortunately, that piece of shit of a man we met in our early 20s?

Yeah, he might pop up again in our late 20s.

And again in our early 30s.

We’re gonna date until we find the one.

And the absolute sad truth is: we have to kiss a lot of frogs to meet our prince.

Corny as hell — but true.

The type of man who leads you on, spins you around, and then says, “I’m just not ready for a relationship,” will lead you straight to hell if you let them.

You have to regain control as soon as possible.

Delulu Land is only fun when your feelings aren’t involved.

So, if you are currently talking to a man, and you like him ardently, and he’s explained to you that he isn’t quite ready for a relationship — but still wants the same access to you?

RUN.

I don’t care if he’s sweet.

I don’t care if he’s fine.

I don’t care if he’s the funniest man alive.

Set your boundaries.

Be firm with it.

And if he has a problem with it — that’s all you need to know.

IF you have been in this experience and escaped by the chinny-chin-chin of your hairs, comment and share with the class your experience:

What were the red flags?

How deep did you get into the relationship before he dropped the bomb?

And how’d you escape?

Be safe, ladies — there’s always a man waiting…

to waste your time.

Love, Aliah

Follow the new instagram account for the blog @ balladsofthe20’s

and the new tiktok account @ balladsofthe20somethings

to always be the first one to know about what the new blog post is going to about every sunday!

Tags breakup, carrie bradshaw, dating, life, love, relationships, short-story, situationship, writing

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Comparison Is The Thief Of Joy

Post author By Aliah Washington
Post date April 19, 2025
No Comments on Comparison Is The Thief Of Joy

Comparison is the thief of joy

Like many of you, I’ve heard this phrase plenty of times in my life. The quote originated from our 26th president, Theodore Roosevelt, who served our beloved country from 1901 to 1909. It isn’t explicitly clear why Theodore said this, but I can imagine running a country had its ups and downs.

Lately, I’ve been hearing this phrase more often than not—while watching a movie, on YouTube, doom-scrolling, and even during a conversation I had with a friend last night:

Comparison is the thief of joy.

I won’t lie to you—some quotes come off as corny to me. But then there are some that just stick.

At this moment in my life, I can vulnerably say that I am not exactly where I want to be. I want to emphasize that I know this feeling isn’t permanent, but while you’re waiting and working toward the life you desire, it can feel like the whole world is on your shoulders.

When you’re watching people online who’ve accomplished a lot—or who’ve achieved the goals you’ve set and prayed for—sometimes it feels like the universe is punishing you.

“When is it my turn?”

This feeling doesn’t come from a place of jealousy or envy—and even if it did, that’s okay. As long as you recognize and understand where that feeling is coming from, and you’re not projecting your insecurities onto others. That’s when it becomes harmful—not only to yourself but also to the people around you.

When I noticed I had these feelings, I genuinely had to check in with myself. Of course, I’m happy and proud of the people around me who are doing the damn thing. But that fear of being left behind is paralyzing.

After checking in with myself, analyzing those feelings (it sucks being a Virgo), and—of course—feeling them (please, feel whatever you’re feeling first), I realized it was a little silly.

There’s no such thing as being left behind. My turn will come.

The feelings are valid—and even after checking in with yourself, they might still linger.

Social media is the epitome of the quote.

You can be scrolling on TikTok, Instagram, YouTube, or wherever, and suddenly you see someone with the body you want, the relationship you want, the apartment, freedom, career—or even the travel life you’ve dreamed of. There is so much space to just… compare.

In doing so, it only makes us focus on where we feel we lack within ourselves.

Lately, I’ve fallen victim to that mindset. Creating that space in my mind has made it unsafe for my thoughts and ideas to flourish.

I feared even writing about this topic because I was afraid someone I knew—or maybe even a complete stranger—might judge me or assume this post was driven by jealousy.

Funnily enough, that fear pushed me to write it anyway. I started this blog by saying, “Do it scared.”

The feelings that have crossed my mind lately aren’t unique to me. And even if it’s just one person who relates to what I’m saying, I’ll take it.

I was listening to a podcast—The Moments Podcast—and the creator had an episode titled “Comparison is the Thief of Joy.”

As someone who wants to take their blog to the next level—grow my following, get sponsors, gain traction—I look at their podcast and see success: the views, the subscribers, the Instagram following (over 80k), and the fact that their Spotify listeners tripled the number of views I’ve had on my blog.

But in that very episode, the creator talked about comparing their podcast to others—where they felt like someone else’s numbers had tripled theirs.

It was a nasty domino effect.

And even now, someone out there might be wishing they had started a blog or a podcast—comparing themselves to those who did. Maybe you’re comparing your life or choices to someone else, and someone else is out there comparing their life to yours.

And so on, and so forth.

It’s a twisted cycle.

It’s so easy to look at our own lives and see only the parts that feel empty.

Shoutout to my friend Madison who said, “Capitalism wants us to compare ourselves and become miserable with our lives.”

And you know what? Can we take it there for a minute? Is that cool? Okay.

A prime example of this? Apple products

I, myself, have used Apple products—so I want to make that abundantly clear. I’ve also fallen victim to feeling like I needed to upgrade my phone every year or so because it’s what everyone else was doing. They showcase these new models and present them as something we have to buy, even though there’s nothing wrong with our iPhone from last year.

And if you’re not up to date with the latest model, it almost starts to feel like it determines your social class. If someone still has an iPhone with the home button, people might look at them like they’re crazy. Off the top of my head, I couldn’t even tell you what the newest iPhone model is right now.

It honestly all circles back to consumerism. There’s probably nothing wrong with the phone you have now—but when September rolls around and Apple drops their latest model, somehow your phone starts glitching. Like, mysteriously malfunctioning. It’s almost as if they want to validate your need to upgrade.

But this post isn’t about the political and economic state of the world right now and how we are trained to always aim for the next best thing. So, critique time is over.

I felt urged to write about this quote because of how fucking true it is. The minute our minds drift into comparison, the satisfaction we had with our lives—our progress, our things, our pace—suddenly and instantly dies.

The journey we were suddenly excited to embark on can feel like a restriction. And it takes the joy out of making risks and being appreciative of the now.

So today, on this beautiful Saturday, I urge you to do 3 things:

1. If you’re feeling unsatisfied in a certain area of your life, do one thing this week that brings you a step closer to that desire.

2. Say, write, or think of five things you’re grateful for right now.

3. Follow the blog’s Instagram: @balladsofthe20somethings

https://www.instagram.com/balladsofthe20somethings/

I know, shamelessly plugging—sue me, lmao.

Also, I try not to word vomit on each post lmao and I’m urged to start a little podcast where I talk about the blog post, a little after hours chit-chat. So Follow my instagram and you’ll be the first to know. (I know I know)

Tags comparison, life, mental-health, personal-growth, writing

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Dating A Fashion/Mista

I couldn’t find the term Fashion/Mista anywhere. Not on Urban Dictionary, not on Twitter, TikTok—not even ChatGPT.

The first time I used the term was during a conversation with my friend Daija. One of us was probably dating a man who was… fashion-forward. That convo led us down a rabbit hole, talking about other men we’ve dated or just knew.

We started calling them fashionistas—because that’s what they are. But because Daija and I have to turn everything into a joke, we coined the term Fashion/Mistas. It began as a playful nickname, but it quickly became a real label for the type of men we kept encountering.

But what really makes someone a Fashion/Mista?

Why not just call them fashionistas or fashion-forward men?

Well, I asked a few friends and family members who’ve also run into these types, and some interesting patterns started to show up.

——

When I asked my aunt how she felt about Fashion/Mistas, she said bluntly: “Not a one-woman man.”

She went on to explain how they switch women as often as they change outfits.

“They want the perfect girl beside them.”

According to her, Fashion/Mistas are often single or… whores. Settling down means giving up the potential of meeting someone “better” later. It’s like their partner is an accessory.

And if a Fashion/Mista does decide to settle down, they’re extremely picky. Compatibility doesn’t even cross their mind.

I once talked to a Fashion/Mista who I thought I was vibing with. He complimented a sweater I was wearing, and when I told him it was from SHEIN, I swear his entire demeanor changed. He immediately started assessing me—judging me.

Now, yes—SHEIN has issues. The company has been called out for exploiting its workers and underpaying them. But I don’t think his problem with it was about ethics. It was because it wasn’t expensive. It wasn’t designer. It wasn’t cool enough.
My aunt also said Fashion/Mistas are known for love bombing, and yes—I can cosign that.

The one I mentioned before? Completely love bombed me right after that judgmental moment. Showered me with compliments, affection, and attention.

When I talked to my friend Sasha, she mentioned dating a Fashion/Mista back in high school who later turned out to be DL—gay. Now, I’m not saying there’s a correlation between Fashion/Mistas and homosexuality, but it was a funny, very on-brand plot twist.

What was relatable, though, was what she said next:

“Men with a big fashion style always tried to change my style—or make it match theirs. But it came off judgmental.”

Wanting a partner who matches your aesthetic is fine. We all want someone who can match our fly. But there’s a thin line between giving suggestions and being lowkey condescending about someone’s taste.

My conversation with Syncere brought in a deeper take. She said:

“I think men care too much about being validated by other men. They’ll literally change their style and appearance not only to connect with other men, but to compete with their masculinity.”

This might’ve been my favorite take.

I think Fashion/Mistas dress to see how many likes and comments they can get. They’ll put on the most basic outfit imaginable—but because it costs way too much, they expect praise. It’s not even about personal style anymore. It’s about performance, competition, and ego.

I remember talking to another friend about Fashion/Mistas, and she told me that he asked her:

“How many pairs of shoes do you have?”

It was such a silly and out-of-touch question. As if the number of shoes she owned could somehow determine her value—based on the number he had in his head.

To piggyback off what Syncere said, my other friend Olivia thinks men do it for approval. Of course, they want compliments from women, but getting them from their male friends? That’s what really strokes their ego—even though these same types of men proudly identify as “straight.”

She explained it like this:

“They want the same attention that a pretty woman gets. They want the treatment that women get. They want to be idolized. They want the free stuff. They want it all.”

Daija said something similar. She compared Fashion/Mistas to IG baddies. Hilarious but true.

And we’re not saying men should dress for women or shouldn’t want to look good for themselves. But when fashion controls their personality and dictates what they desire? That’s where it becomes harmful.

Because nothing is worse than an insecure man.

Sometimes, a Fashion/Mista isn’t even passionate about what they wear—they’re more obsessed with how they look.

Daija brought up light-skinned men as a perfect example of an archetype: the kind who genuinely believes he looks better than you. She described them as butterflies—“Pretty to look at, but hard to catch.”

She shared a story about one she dated:

“He withheld sex from me because he believed I didn’t value him enough.”

These types of men pride themselves on being untouchable whores.

Fashion/Mistas are the kind of men who care way too much about what they’re wearing, how much it costs, and the woman beside them for that moment.

A lot of times, they don’t even know why they care so much about looking good.

It goes beyond self-love and becomes a secret third thing:

Insecurity.

Whether they’re overcompensating or trying to prove something, it shows up in their ability to create close, romantic relationships with women.

And honestly?

They’re okay with that.

In their eyes, it’s our loss.

Again, they view themselves as the prize. Send the flood.

Their self-perception is already warped, so it makes sense that their view of women is too. They chase an image that isn’t even sustainable—and it starts to consume them.

This post isn’t meant to steer you away from dating a man who likes to dress nice.

But a warning to watch out for red flags.These types of men can be dangerous to date—especially if you’re confident and secure.

Never let a man dim your light just so they can shine.

Sincerely,

Your older sisters 💕

Tags fashion, lifestyle, men, relationships, women, writing

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Angel Meets Devil

Angel Meets Devil

Chapter 3

Charles Baudelaire – The Flowers of Evil:

“It is the Devil’s cunning to pretend to be simple and make us believe that we are all innocent.”

“Why the snake?” Angel asked, curiosity lacing her voice. The tattoo suited him, she thought. There was something about Devil—dark, alluring, unpredictable. He kept her on her toes, never saying quite what she expected. It scared her in a way that oddly soothed her overthinking mind.

“I just thought it looked cool,” he said with the same casualness that seemed to define him. His answer was so laid-back, so effortless. Angel almost envied it. When it came to her own tattoos, she could spend hours explaining the meaning behind each one, each design carefully chosen, each memory ingrained in her skin.

She noticed his gaze shift to her Godspeed tattoo, and she offered an explanation without him needing to ask. “I got this one because of a song by Frank Ocean. It’s about loving someone so deeply, but knowing you have to part ways, even though you don’t want to. I feel things intensely, and when I have to let go, it takes me a long time to do it. But I always end up doing it because…well, it’s the right thing to do.”

As she spoke, their hands brushed against each other, both of them tracing the delicate lines of her tattoo. Every time his thumb grazed her wrist, where the ink rested, Angel lost track of her thoughts, her words slowing as the sensation took over. His touch felt electric, a quiet, thrilling charge that left her dizzy. She couldn’t focus on anything except the way his skin felt against hers, and the warmth that radiated between them. She could live in this forever.

Devil pointed to her moon tattoo next, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “And the moon? Why the moon, moon girl?” he teased.

She grinned, mimicking the answer he gave her earlier. “I thought it looked cool,” she said, laughter filling up between them. He shook his head, his laugh low and easy.

“But really,” she continued, her tone softening as her fingers brushed over the tattoo, “I love the moon. It comforts me. It’s always there, even when you can’t see it. And obviously beautiful.”

Her eyes shifted from the tattoo to his, and for a moment, everything felt still. The music, the moonlight, the way they sat so close yet so carefully apart—it all made the air feel heavier, charged with an unspoken understanding between them.

The car hummed softly as they fell into a peaceful silence, only the faint music in the background keeping them company. Angel let her head rest against the seat, feeling at ease. She reached out to caress Devil’s arm, his touch warm as he continued tracing small patterns on her skin. It was nice, almost too nice. She could feel herself sinking into the moment, wondering if she could stay like this forever.

Every so often, their eyes would meet again, and each time the connection felt a little deeper. Angel couldn’t help but laugh softly, taking a deep breath to steady herself. This man is going to kill me, she thought. The intensity of the quiet moments between them was almost overwhelming, but in a way she didn’t want to escape.

“You have a pretty smile,” Devil suddenly said, his voice breaking the silence but in the softest, most sincere way.

Angel smiled back, her heart fluttering. “Thank you,” she said quietly, then added, “You have pretty eyes.” She meant it—the way his eyes seemed to lock on hers made her feel seen in a way that was new to her. Just by looking into his eyes, she felt like she knew him. Like she could tell him anything. It was captivating.

“I was thinking the same thing about you,” he said, still holding her gaze with that same unspoken warmth.

Angel glanced down and noticed that, somewhere in the middle of their comfortable silence, they had started holding hands. He was gently caressing her thumb with his, tracing small, delicate circles. It was a simple touch, but it sent waves through her. She couldn’t stop smiling, feeling that strange combination of excitement and calm she never expected.

Before she even realized what she was doing, she raised their interlocked hands to her lips and planted a soft kiss on Devil’s hand. The action was instinctive, so quick that it didn’t register until her lips pulled away.

She hesitated, too nervous to look up at him, but curiosity got the best of her. Slowly, she peeled her gaze toward Devil, searching for his reaction. Before she could process her own uncertainty, he mirrored her, lifting their hands to his lips and placing a small kiss on her skin.

His lips were soft, sending a wave of warmth that traveled through her arm. There was something about the sweetness of the moment, something Angel wasn’t used to. Devil had a way of making her feel… affectionate. Her fingers continued to trace the lines of his arm, her lips trailing gentle kisses from his hand to his forearm. This was unfamiliar territory, yet it felt so natural—for him, for Devil. He brought these small, tender parts of her to life. And she was happy to oblige.

And Devil returned the favor.

Angel wasn’t used to this type of sweetness. It wasn’t as though she had dated men who were mean or unkind, but it was the ease of it all that caught her off guard. She welcomed it, never wanting to let it go.

“So… what was your first impression of me?” Devil asked, still caressing her hand but avoiding her gaze this time.
Is he… nervous? Angel wondered. She had thought she was the only one wrapped up in her own head, but maybe Devil was, too. The thought comforted her. It reassured her that this—whatever this was—scared him a little bit, too.

https://balladsofthe20somethings.blog/2025/05/03/angel-meets-devil-4/

Tags fiction, humor, romance, writing

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Unspoken Anger, Assigned Roles and Beyonce

Post author By Aliah Washington
Post date April 5, 2025
2 Comments on Unspoken Anger, Assigned Roles and Beyonce

Song of the Day

DAUGHTER – Beyoncé

Today, I’ll be dissecting the song DAUGHTER by Beyoncé, our mother. I think it’s very fitting that the first song I talk about — and find complete solace in — is a Beyoncé song. So, let’s get into it.

When Beyoncé dropped COWBOY CARTER on March 29 of last year, I was hooked on the first full listen of the album. On the second listen, some songs held more personal weight for me than others. DAUGHTER was one of them.

In the song, Beyoncé dives into the true and complex feelings of infidelity, and although I can relate to that feeling all too well, what struck me more was her expression of anger — maybe even violent anger. She compares and recognizes these negative emotions as resembling those of her father. As a threat, she warns people not to think that just because she’s “calm” or tries to be the bigger person, it doesn’t discredit the raw and vicious thoughts she sometimes wants to act on — even thoughts of wanting to harm someone.

Being a twin, I’ve always wanted to distinguish myself from my sister. The constant need to stand out on my own was a recurring theme in our lives — and sometimes still is. When we were younger, my sister was assigned the typical “mean” twin role, and by default, I was the “nice” twin. They were fixed roles, and they followed us pretty much all our lives. I can’t speak for any siblings or twins who were assigned the “mean” twin or sibling role, but I can speak for those of us who were given the “nice” one.

In comparison to the “mean” twin/sibling role, it’s theoretically a good one — but it comes with restrictions. I swear I’m going to tie this back to the song and wrap it with a bow, stay with me y’all lol. As I was saying, when that role is assigned to you at a young age, it becomes limiting. The moment you want to step outside of it, others feel like you’re “changing” or say, “This isn’t you.” As if you’re a one-dimensional character.

Now, back to the song.

When I heard the lyrics:

“They keep sayin’ that I ain’t nothin’ like my

Father

But I’m the furthest thing from choir boys

And altars

If you cross me, I’m just like my father

I am colder than Titanic water”

I was fortunate enough to have both my parents in my life who loved and cared about me. My parents were… unique in their own way.

My mom — sweet, gentle, brighter than the sun.

My dad — tough, sometimes cold, stubborn.

My dad was strict, and my mom gave us more leeway. When I was younger, my sisters and even my dad would say I was just like my mom. I was sensitive — still am — forgiving, and always saw the best in people. My sister, on the other hand, could relate more to my dad. The comparison never bothered me, because my view of my mother’s strength never wavered.

It was the expectation that bothered me.

When I heard Beyoncé sing those lyrics for the first time, I knew exactly what she meant. Emotionally, my dad and I couldn’t be more different. But in those moments where I feel betrayed, enraged, or embittered, I can almost feel myself turning into my father.

“Help me, Lord, from these fantasies in my

Head

They ain’t ever been safe ones

I don’t fellowship with these fake ones”

Having that “nice sibling” role assigned to me had its limitations. When I was slighted or wronged and felt like I couldn’t let my anger speak, I buried it in my thoughts. I was afraid I’d go against the status quo. If I let myself show a human and reasonable emotion — who am I? My sense of self felt attacked. My desire to stand out from my twin was suddenly in question.

Now that I’m older — and many therapy sessions later — I’ve finally broken away from the “nice sibling” role. That doesn’t mean I’ve adopted the “mean sibling” role either. I’ve just become comfortable with the fact that I have a range of emotions. One character trait does not define me, and I don’t have to stick to just one. I’ve learned that if people expect you to be one way and get let down, that’s on them, not you.

Obviously, this song goes beyond just being cold like your father. Beyoncé talks about infidelity and the anger she possesses when she finds out — but that’s what I love about music. You interpret it how you want to.

So, if you feel like you’ve been assigned a “role” in your childhood and you want to break free from that, I invite you to listen to the song.

I love that I am both my mother and my father. And it’s even cooler that I’m the only one of their children who carries both of their last names.

I am the daughter of Stormie Ashley and Frank Washington.

With love,

Aliah Ashley Washington

Tags anger, beyonce, family, life, mental-health, music, siblings, twins, writing

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Angel Meets Devil

Click to read Chapter 1 https://balladsofthe20somethings.blog/2025/03/18/angel-meets-devil/

Chapter 2

Edgar Allan Poe – The Imp of the Perverse:

“We stand upon the brink of a precipice. We peer into the abyss – we grow sick and dizzy. Our first impulse is to shrink from the danger. Unaccountably we remain”

“Of course I came,” he replied, meeting her gaze with unwavering eye contact, each word dripping with sincerity. In that moment, Angel felt a spark ignite between them, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. It was both thrilling and terrifying, and she couldn’t help but wonder if this was the beginning of something new or just another fleeting moment in a world full of uncertainties.

He looked at her, noticing her outfit and how she’d styled her hair.

“You look really pretty,” he said, his voice soft but sure.

Angel glanced away, feeling the warmth creep up her neck. She didn’t want Devil to know she’d probably replay that moment ten times over before going to bed tonight. She looked back at him, this time holding his gaze a little longer.

“Thank you,” she said. “You look good, too.”

Still meeting her eyes, he smiled slightly. “Thank you.”

Not wanting to let the conversation stall, Angel shifted, asking what had happened today. Now that he was here, maybe they could laugh about it. Devil explained that he honestly didn’t know how he’d forgotten and had genuinely thought tomorrow was their date. His work days had been long, and all the hours had started blurring together.

Hearing him explain, seeing the way his shoulders slumped a little in apology, made Angel feel better. She could tell he really meant it.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here now, so…” Angel’s voice trailed off. She never was good at telling guys how she felt, not when it mattered. Letting Devil know she was starting to care for him felt risky—like saying it out loud might somehow unravel everything.

He kept his eyes on her, as if reading her hesitation.

“Me too,” he said quietly.

“I knew that if I didn’t come today, I was gonna lose you,” Devil said, half-joking but with a seriousness in his eyes that made Angel pause. She laughed softly, but they both knew he was exactly right. Another thing she liked about him—he understood. He knew how much these first moments, these chances to build something real, meant to her. He didn’t want to mess it up either.

“I just… really wanted to see you, I guess.” Angel’s voice faltered as she looked down, her hands suddenly busy with nothing in particular. She wasn’t used to being this open, especially not so soon. But here she was, laying it bare.

“I know. Me too… and I’m sorry again. That won’t happen again.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, Angel believed a man.

They sat there, the moon hanging high above them, music playing low enough to let their words breathe but loud enough to fill the spaces between. All the nerves and worry Angel had about meeting Devil melted away. Their conversation flowed as easily as it had through texts. They laughed, teasing and bouncing off each other’s humor effortlessly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It scared her, how comfortable she felt. But it also excited her. There was no nervousness, just this strange, wonderful ease. Like they’d known each other for much longer than two weeks. Like they could finally exhale.

Angel noticed Devil had a few tattoos, and she’d always been curious about why people choose certain symbols to mark their bodies forever. She had tattoos herself, each carrying a meaning she cherished deeply. She thought this was another way to understand Devil.

“Can I see your tattoos?” Angel asked, her voice soft but curious.

“Of course.” He rolled up his right sleeve, revealing a small sword inked into his forearm and a coiled snake beside it.

She glanced up at him, pausing before asking, “Can I touch it?”

He nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting in encouragement. It was the first time they would touch, and though it was innocent, it felt loaded with significance. They’d been sitting in the car for over an hour, talking and laughing, but this—this felt intimate. Maybe it was the late hour, or maybe it was the soft hum of Frank Ocean’s Ivy playing through the speakers, or perhaps it was the way the moonlight draped over them as if wrapping them in a quiet spell.

Angel gently traced her fingers along the sword tattoo, her touch lingering. “Why did you get this one?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I…honestly don’t know,” he admitted, glancing down at his own arm. “It was my first tattoo. I just thought it was cool at the time, but now I kinda want to cover it up.”

“Oh, perfect,” Angel said with a mischievous grin, still caressing his arm. “You can cover it up with my name. Or better yet, my face.”

Devil threw his head back and laughed, and that sound sent a wave of warmth through her. She would have listened to that laugh on a loop. She’d pull a microphone out and perform a whole stand-up routine if it meant she could hear it again.

“You’re funny,” he said, a smile still lighting up his face. “Let’s see how tonight goes—maybe.”

She laughed with him, enjoying the ease between them. “So, what are you thinking of getting instead? If not my face, obviously.”

“Probably a spider,” he said, locking eyes with her again, his tone more serious this time, the playfulness fading into something quieter.

Their eye contact lingered, the atmosphere shifting. Angel’s fingers remained on his arm, moving slowly, almost thoughtfully. As Infrunami by Steve Lacy began to play, the lyrics filled the space between them:

You’re the one I want, You’re the one I need, I’m beggin’ you, please…

She wondered if he was feeling the same pull she was, if he too was silently connecting the lyrics to this moment, to them. Will he also go back home and replay this song just to relive this moment?

Angel was the first to break eye contact, her gaze dropping to his other tattoo—a snake that coiled around his arm. Her fingers followed, tracing the serpent’s lines, her touch slow and soft, as though she were studying a piece of art.

Want More? No worries, click below for chapter 3!

https://balladsofthe20somethings.blog/?p=353

Tags books, fiction, romance, short-story, writing

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“Where’s The Light?”

This is a story about 2 girls who left their friend group to go use a bathroom. Nothing crazy. Simple task. What could possibly go wrong?

“Okay, everybody out! It is now 2 a.m., the bar is closed!”

My friends and I were at Daddio’s, the bar we usually go to in downtown Normal, Illinois. We were hot—figuratively and literally—had to pee, and still wanted to squeeze in one last hoorah.

“Y’all, where’s the afterparty? The night can’t be over!” our friend Wendy exclaimed. She was finally free to be out and spend time with us after being tied up with her sorority. Not in a hostage kind of way—more like she had been committed to bonding with her sisters. Anyway, Wendy was just happy to be outside, and we were happy to have her.

Lani, looking down at her phone, finally looked up and said, “My friend says to pull up to this address. They’re having a little get-together.” Lani either knew everyone on campus, or everyone knew her. Regardless, she was well-connected—at least in my opinion.

“Ladies, please figure out your whereabouts OUTSIDE the bar.”

We turned around to see our favorite security guard, Steve. He wore a black shirt with SECURITY printed on it, black pants, and a black hat perched backward on his head. He stood like a brick wall, his rough gray beard and mustache made him look even more serious than he actually was. Anytime we went downtown and saw Steve, we knew we were getting in. Some might call that a toxic pipeline to alcohol and partying—we called it making another friend. Or maybe we were just girls who liked to have fun.

“Steeeve!” we all exclaimed happily. We liked to believe we were always the highlight of his night. While he checked purses and IDs, we always made it a point to chat with him and make sure he was having a smooth shift.

“Steve, you’re really gonna kick us out like you did the others?” my twin sister, Maleah, asked.

“I absolutely have to, ladies. They’re telling me everyone needs to be out now. Get home safe.” He smiled while also gently pushing us toward the door.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” he muttered under his breath as we were brushing passing him, but the way he said it , it was clear he knew we would.

We walked outside, still trying to figure out whether we were calling it a night or keeping the party going.

“Oh my God, y’all, look at that car!” Wendy said, pointing at a blue Rolls-Royce parked nearby. As we inched closer, we saw the infamous starry-night interior roof. The polished black exterior gleamed under the streetlights.

A tall, muscular, dark-skinned man stepped out from the passenger seat, approaching us with a huge smile.

“Sir, your car is so cool,” Maleah said first.

“Okay, not you riding around Normal in this,” Daija said jokingly.

“Thanks, I got this car last year. I drove down here from Chicago for my cousin’s birthday,” he started explaining. He went on about how he got the car, but I had the strange feeling of someone… watching me.

I turned around and noticed the guy I had been talking to on Snapchat—and briefly at the bar—staring at me. Let’s just call him D. When we locked eyes, he immediately started smiling.

Already uninterested in the guy with the cool car, I walked toward D, and his smile only widened.

“So you stalk me on Snapchat, show up at the same bar I’m at, and now you’re watching me? I feel obligated to let you know my dad’s a cop,” I half-joked.

We would text back and forth on Snapchat, and by back and forth, I mean him asking to see me and me constantly dodging it. Not on purpose—I just never found the time or cared enough to.

“I’m not following you. And besides, I see you’re busy flirting with dude over there,” D said, nodding toward the guy with the car. My friends were swarming it, asking if they could hop in.

Laughing and shaking my head, I asked, “If I was flirting with him, I don’t see how that would concern you.”

Unfortunately, I do love challenging a man. I was also still tipsy, so the confidence was taking over a little.

As D was about to respond, a tall but lean man with locs staggered toward us, looking ready to call it a night.

“D, I’m ready to go. All the bars are closed,” he said, not yet noticing me.

A little annoyed, D replied, “Okay, give me a minute, I’m talking.”

The unfamiliar guy looked me up and down, then grinned, wrapping an arm around D’s shoulders and leaning on him.

“Oh, my bad, cuzzo. I didn’t mean to interrupt. What’s your name, beautiful?” he asked, still smiling.

I gave a warm smile back. “Aliah. And you?”

“You can call me Tank,” he said, extending his hand for me to shake.

Just as I reached for it, I heard my name being called from behind.

“Aliah, what you doing over here?”

I turned around to see Daija walking toward me, her arms bundled up against her chest for warmth. That girl stays cold.

“Just talking,” I say. I almost forgot they were still over there by the car.

Smirking, Daija asks, “Who are you talking to?”

Daija and I were a nasty duo. Whenever we went out, I’d be her wingman or vice versa. And when we both drank, we became two extroverted girls who were unstoppable. We were the devils on each other shoulders.

She stands beside me and looks Tank and D up and down, almost as if she’s assessing whether they even have the right to be talking to me. She does a double take on D, and realization dawns on her face.

Pointing her finger at him, she says, “I remember you. You were talking to Aliah in the bar, trying to get her to stay when we were trying to hit the next spot.” She nearly laughs.

“So, what do you want with my homegirl?” she asks, finally crossing her arms—interrogating him but fighting back a smile.

Not able to contain my laugh, I start giggling because one thing about Daija is that when liquor hits her system, she gets blunt—especially when it comes to a man.

“Woah, woah, I should be asking your homegirl what she wants with my cousin,” Tank says, finally speaking up.

Taken aback, Daija looks Tank up and down and asks, “And who are you?”

Mimicking her, Tank folds his arms over his chest, looks her up and down, and smirks. “I’m Tank. Who are you?”

“Daija,” she says flatly, pressing her lips together to keep from laughing.

Quickly changing the subject, Daija turns to me. “Wendy, Maleah, and Lani are going for a ride in the Rolls-Royce.”

I turn around and see them all piling into the car.

Turning back to Daija, I shake my head. “I don’t really want to get in, and I also have to pee.”

“Girl, me too. I’ve been holding it forever,” Daija says. I glance down at her feet and notice she’s doing the little two-step she always does when she’s trying to hold her pee.

D finally speaks up and says, “Our apartment is right around the corner if y’all want to use the bathroom.”

Daija and I looked at each other, silently having a full conversation with our eyes.

Daija: Should we go?

Me: I don’t know… I do really have to pee.

Daija: Girl, me too, but what if we go and he kills us?

Me: Yeah, that’s a fair concern.

Daija:

Me:

Daija:

Me: Okay, let’s tell the girls where we’re going. They have our location. And, at the very least, D and Tank are short. Our chances of survival are higher just off that.

We both turned to look at D and Tank, who were giving us questionable looks. We sized them up. D stood only about 5’4”, maybe 5’5” on a good day, while his cousin, Tank, was pushing 5’6”. They were short kings.

Daija and I turned to each other again and burst out laughing.

“You girls are weird,” D said, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Shut up,” Daija shot back.

“Okay, we’ll go, but I’m gonna let our friends know first,” I said.

I walked over to Maleah, Wendy, and Lani, who were already getting settled into the car, and told them the plan.

“So, Daija and I are gonna go to my friend’s apartment real quick to use the bathroom. What time will you guys be back so we can meet up?” I asked. They all had big smiles on their faces, excited for this joyride.

“Well, he’s gonna take us for a spin and then drop me off at my car, and we’re going to Wendy’s,” Lani told me.

Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned around to see Daija, still doing the 1-2 step, barely holding it together.

“What’s going on?” she asked, impatiently.

I tell her how they are going for a ride in the guys car and then he’s dropping them off in Lani’s car.

“Okay, well I was talking to D and he said he got a car and can drop us off wherever we need to go, so we can ride with him after we pee,” she says to me. She turns to Wendy and says, “Just let us know when y’all make it home so we can get in.”

We all nod in agreement to the plan, but before letting them go, I went behind the car and snapped a picture of the license plate and walked around to the driver seat, Daija following close behind, and came to the guys window.

“I got your License plate, so if my friends and sister are not where they need to be in 20 minutes, I’m calling the police,” I threaten.

The guy starts laughing but once he notices neither Daija or I wasn’t joking, he turns serious.

“I’m just taking them up the street and back and then I’m going to drop them at the parking lot where her car is,” he finally says. I nod my head and take a few steps back so he can pull off.

Daija and me walked towards D and Tank who were patiently waiting for us to check in with our friends.

“How far is this walk again?” I asked D. It was starting to get cold and I didn’t know how much longer I could hold my pee.

“Just 5 minutes,” he responds casually.

Looking back, the walk was probably 5 minutes, but to Daija and I the walk felt like the march to freedom.

“This walk isn’t five minutes” Daija complained loudly, dragging her feet.

“D, if you’re going to kill us, just do it. But don’t make us walk to our deaths– thats just cruel,” I cried out.

“I’ve never met two girls who complain more than you two,” Tank said, rolling his eyes.

“And we’re here,” D finally says.“We have to go around the back,” D explained, leading us to the back of their apartment complex, where all the cars were parked.

From the outside, it looked like a regular apartment, nothing fancy, but nothing that made us want to turn around and run, either. It wasn’t until we stepped inside that we started questioning.

We followed them into the apartment, and immediately we were met with a light that kept flickering, a smell that reeked of eggs and a wet dog and garbage all over the floor.

“Oh hell no” Daija mutter under her breath, disgust and horror plastered all over her face.

Daija and I looked at each other.

Me: I hope their apartment doesn’t look like this.

Daija: I hope their toilet don’t look like this. We pee and then we go.

We followed them up the stairs, trying not to laugh at the situation.

“We finna die,” I whispered to Daija, jokingly.

“I just want to pee,” Daija whispered back, desperation evident in her voice.

As we continued up the stairs, getting closer to their apartment, D turned to me and asked, “You gotta piss, right?”

I nodded, not even bothering to answer, because just as he asked, his cousin had already unlocked the door to their apartment. Have you ever seen a crime scene in a horror movie? Now imagine the victim being a pile of unfolded clothes, half-eaten food, and mysterious stains on a mattress. It was a one-bedroom loft where the bedroom doubled as the living room. Each time Daija and I looked around, we found something else we couldn’t unsee.

“Okay, here’s the bathroom,” D said, pointing to the door on the right.

Daija and I immediately made a beeline for the bathroom when D asked, “Oh, both of y’all gotta piss?” Why did he insist on saying “piss” instead of “pee”? No clue, but it only made the whole thing even more uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” we said in unison, as though it were the most normal thing in the world.

“Y’all gonna share a bathroom?” D muttered under his breath, probably not expecting us to hear him.

“Yeah, y’all don’t do that?” I said, trying to make a joke while we practically sprinted to the bathroom.

“Weirdos,” Daija finally said, just before we both rushed into the bathroom.

Without a second thought, we slammed the door behind us and locked it. We turned to each other, eyes wide with panic and fear. Finally letting out our breaths

“Turn the light on,” Daija said, her voice tight.

I couldn’t take any of this seriously. I burst into laughter while Daija scrambled around, desperately searching for the light switch. We were cramped in the tiny bathroom, hands brushing the walls as we tried to flip the switch, hoping for some sign of light.

“Where’s the light?” Daija cried out, crossing her legs to hold back the floodgates—no, the piss gates. I wasn’t even trying to help. Instead, I silently giggled at the absurdity, knowing the guys outside could probably hear our little freak-out session, which only made it worse, and therefore, even funnier.

Daija pulled out her phone to use the flashlight, her eyes darting over every corner of the cramped bathroom, scanning for that elusive switch.

“Where’s the light?” she says, exasperated.

As she’s still scrambling to find the light, I noticed the door cracked open. We both reached to close it again, but it cracked open once more. The door was broken. We couldn’t even lock it, so to keep it shut, one of us had to keep a hand pressed against it.

So, the bathroom didn’t have a light, and it looked like it had witnessed things no bathroom should ever see. The mirror was smudged with god knows what, the sink had toothpaste stains all over it, the tiles on the floor were cracked, and the door wouldn’t even close. All I could do was laugh.

Daija, still holding her phone with the flashlight on, accepted defeat. She just pulled her pants down to pee, determined not to let her butt touch the toilet. She was still breathing heavily, and I was praying to God to take all my laughs and giggles out of me so I could lock in and focus.

Daija and I looked at each other, and she whispered, “Aliah, please.”

I completely lost it again. I was trying to get her to lower her voice because the apartment was so small, there was no way the guys couldn’t hear us.

“Daija, shut up,” I hushed back, holding the door with one hand while crossing my legs, praying to the heavens to not let me pee— no, piss—on myself from laughing.

We both realized we had no idea what we’d gotten ourselves into. The whole situation was unsettling, and once again, all we could do was laugh.

“I’m trying to pee faster, I swear. Bitch, this is the last time I will follow you anywhere,” Daija muttered when she noticed me doing the 1-2 step, trying to hold it in.

“Remember that scene in Scary Movie 2 when the pastor was on the toilet?” I said between laughs. Daija tried to hold it in, but a snort slipped out, making us both laugh even harder. Her snorts kept coming, each one louder than the last.

At this point, I was doing everything I could to get Daija to stop laughing.

“Daija!” I said between bursts of laughter. “Shh, shut up, stop!” I crossed my legs again, now praying to anyone who would listen to please not let me pee—piss—on myself.

“I’m sorry, I’m trying, I’m trying,” she said, tears forming in her eyes from all the laughter. We both took deep breaths, trying to steady ourselves, so we could get the hell out of there.

She finished, washed her hands, and we switched positions. She held the door with one hand and the other with holding her phone as a flashlight while I used the bathroom.

We left the bathroom, and noticed Tank was on his bed, watching TV, with D nowhere in sight.

“D went to the car to warm it up for y’all,” Tank told us.

We headed downstairs and outside, then hopped in the car with D, who took us to Wendy’s. The car ride was a silent one, Daija and me both traumatized, not wanting to utter a word. Our friends had made it back to Wendy’s place safe and sound, and that was the end of the night.

To our surprise, Wendy, Lani, and Maleah got pulled over while riding with the Rolls-Royce man, which made for a hilarious story. In return, we told them about surviving the bathroom from hell.

It was an eventful night—definitely one for the books.

Tags fiction, friend, humor, party, short-story, writing

blog

Angel Meets Devil

Chapter 1

Summer of 2023.

A story that captures the complexity of love, self-doubt, betrayal and longing. Follow the journey on how Angel fights between what she wants and what she knows is best for her.

Angel is back home for the summer, waiting until she can return to her life in Normal—the place she stays for school, where her friends are close, and her independence feels more solid. It’s May. She just moved out of her apartment and is counting down the days until she can move back in with her sister and friends in June.

“Only a month, and I’ll be gone,” Angel kept telling herself.

Being home wasn’t terrible, but after moving out of her parents’ house and curating her own space, it was hard to settle back into her old environment. The bedsheets she’d carefully picked out on Amazon didn’t feel anything like the ones her dad had kept for eight years. The isolation of the city where her dad lived only made it worse. It was the kind of place where you raised your kids, sent them to college, and then… Well, stay until you die.

Normal—where Angel had been living for the past three years—wasn’t perfect either. It was where people went to school, took gap years, or lingered after graduation, unsure of the next step. Still, it had become her second, and sometimes first, home. The sense of familiarity she’d found there made it easier to disconnect from her actual hometown and the people in it.

Angel was staying with her mom for the week, which she enjoyed because her mom was always up for talking or going out .It was Saturday night, and her mom, Sonny, had suggested they all go bowling—Angel, Sonny, and Perry, Angel’s fun-loving stepdad.

By 7 PM, Angel and Perry were ready, as usual, before Sonny. Bored and in her twenties, Angel did what any single person would do: she re-downloaded the dating apps. She had a love-hate relationship with these apps, always telling herself she’d deleted them for good, only to find herself reinstalling Tinder when she had nothing better to do.

Angel wasn’t exactly failing at love, but let’s just say she wasn’t excelling at it either. Of course, she insisted that she only downloaded the app for fun, or because she was bored, but there was always that small, unspoken hope that she might actually meet someone worth liking. (She had once, but… we don’t talk about Bruno.)

As she swiped through profiles, mostly left, occasionally right, she thought about how simple her quota were: funny, tall, and attractive. That’s not too much to ask, right? The problem was that even when someone met those basic standards, their in depth personalities would always drag them down. Once she matched with someone, they would disappoint her by saying things like, “So what you doing tonight” hinting that they should move things from the app to their bedroom.

Then she came across a profile that caught her attention.

For legal purposes, let’s name him Devil.

Angel came across Devil’s profile. He looked tall, lived near her mom’s neighborhood, was cute, and had a decent sense of style. His profile read, “So you’re telling me a shrimp fried this rice?” That made her laugh—it was funny and sort of original. She felt like she had heard it somewhere before but couldn’t pinpoint where, and on the first read, it made her smile. Intrigued, she swiped right.

When the screen flashed MATCHED in big, playful letters, Angel felt her curiosity grow. Knowing he was also at least a little interested made her feel a bit more confident.

Angel wasn’t the type to wait for the guy to send the first message—she’d learned early on that if you wait for a man, you’ll be waiting forever. Still, she hesitated. She didn’t want to start with a boring “hey” or throw out a generic compliment. Weirdly enough, she wanted to impress him, to show that she had a sense of humor too.

So, she typed out her reply: “A shrimp did, in fact, fried this rice.”

As soon as she hit send, she regretted it.

Really, Angel? she thought, That’s the first thing you say?

She spiraled into self-doubt, convincing herself that this random stranger would think she was some kind of weird freak. But then her phone buzzed. It was Devil, responding already. He either had impressive texting skills or spent way too much time on the app.

Curious, she opened Tinder to see what he’d said:

“You’re the only person who’s ever gotten my joke.”

———————————–

Angel hadn’t expected to meet someone who could shift her entire perspective in just two weeks, but here she was, contemplating whether to stay because of a guy she hadn’t even met in person yet. It felt ridiculous, but at the same time, it felt real. Every time she thought about packing up and heading back to Normal, an image of Devil would flash in her mind—his texts, their jokes, the way he made her feel like she could say anything. The connection was instant, like the two of them had skipped all the awkward first-date jitters and jumped straight into something that felt… real.

But how could it feel so real when they hadn’t even met?

Angel had always been careful with her feelings, or at least tried to be. She knew what it was like to give too much of herself, to hope for something that wasn’t there. But this time, it was different. With Devil, everything felt so easy, so natural. They talked about everything—his job, her summer plans, the music they both loved, and the random jokes they’d send to each other throughout the day. He made her laugh. And he listened. Every time she opened her phone to see his name pop up, it was like a little jolt of excitement.

That excitement was becoming addictive.

Angel found herself thinking about him constantly. The good morning texts made her smile more than she’d like to admit. And when he’d told her he couldn’t bear the thought of her going back to school, her heart had leapt. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had made her feel so seen, so wanted. But that also scared her.

There was a nagging voice in the back of her mind, reminding her that none of this was real yet. They hadn’t met. They hadn’t even had the chance to sit across from each other, to see if the same spark existed in person. What if it didn’t? What if the version of Devil she was building in her head was just that—a version? A fantasy she was creating to fill the gaps of her own loneliness?

But then again, what if it was real? What if meeting him only confirmed what she already felt, that this was something special? Something worth staying for?

Angel’s chest tightened at the thought of leaving in June, knowing she might never know the answer. What if she left and missed out on something that could change everything? She didn’t want to lose this feeling, the flutter in her stomach every time his name appeared on her screen. The idea of leaving now felt impossible, like she’d be walking away from a chance at something… more.

Her logical side told her to stick with her plan—move back, start fresh, focus on herself. But her heart wasn’t so sure. She wanted to stay, just for a little while longer, to see where this could go. Maybe it wasn’t practical, but when had feelings ever been practical? The intensity of what she felt for Devil was undeniable, and it was pulling her in, making her question everything she thought she wanted.

Could she really leave when this was just beginning?

“So when are you going to take me out on a date?” Angel asked Devil, her voice playful as they laughed while playing Roblox together on the phone. She had been trying to find a way to bring up meeting face-to-face, but he seemed to be tiptoeing around it. Subtlety wasn’t her strong suit, so she decided to just ask directly.

“What are you doing this Thursday? Are you free?” he replied without missing a beat.

That was something Angel really liked about Devil—he never made her feel awkward about how she spoke her mind. She had feared her question might come off as too forward, but he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he appreciated her honesty. She loved how quickly he responded with a plan, setting a date immediately. It was such a small thing, but to her, it meant a lot. Angel was used to men who would argue over everything she said instead of just offering a solution. Devil’s decisiveness felt refreshing.

The entire week, Angel found herself counting down the days. She was finally going to meet the guy who had kept her eyes glued to her phone for weeks, the guy whose voice she looked forward to hearing on late-night calls. She was nervous, of course, but the excitement outweighed everything else. In many ways, he already felt familiar to her, like they had known each other for years.

Thursday evening came, and Angel was at her dad’s house, getting ready. She hadn’t been told what they were doing, so she opted for something that felt both cute and comfortable. A short skirt—not too long, but not too revealing—paired with a plain tank top and her favorite black and brown flannel. She wanted to look stylish without trying too hard. As she finished getting ready, she kept texting Devil, hoping he would mention their date. But nothing. His texts came in, but they felt casual, as if today were just any other day.

Around 4 PM, Devil told her he was going to take a nap. Angel replied with a simple “okay,” though her stomach twisted slightly. Then 5 PM came. Still nothing. By 6 PM, her nerves had started to kick in.

“Is he going to flake on me at the last minute?” she thought. She didn’t want to assume the worst or reduce him to that, but something felt off. He hadn’t mentioned their date all day. Angel hesitated to bring it up, worried she might come across as overly eager. The last thing she wanted was to seem desperate or pushy, but her excitement was quickly turning into anxiety.

By 7:50 PM, she was checking her phone obsessively, waiting for any sign of him. Then, finally, a message from Devil popped up.

“Good morning,” Devil texted. It was his usual greeting after waking up from his naps, but this time, it landed differently.

“Good morning,” Angel replied, forcing a smile despite the growing tension in her chest. Nothing about today felt good. She was livid—angry at herself for taking this long to realize that Devil either completely forgot about their date or was just an asshole. Neither option was ideal.

He quickly asked, “Are you at your mom’s place?” She reminded him she wouldn’t be going over there until Friday. As soon as she said that, she could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

“Oh my God, today isn’t Wednesday,” he exclaimed, his tone shifting to one of panic. “Angel, I’m so sorry. I thought today was Wednesday because I’m off tomorrow.”

Angel’s heart sank. To his credit, he sounded genuinely remorseful, but the reality of his mistake felt catastrophic. She had been looking forward to this day since he asked her out. It was the one bright spot in a long, mundane week. How could he mix up the days for their first meeting?

“It’s cool,” she replied dryly, though it was anything but. In that moment, Angel felt the weight of her disappointment crash down around her. She had spent hours preparing, her excitement building with each passing day. Now she felt foolish for having allowed herself to hope so much. The idea of explaining to her best friend that the guy she had been raving about had forgotten their date was downright humiliating.

“Okay…” Devil said cautiously, sensing the tension in her voice. He wasn’t oblivious; he could feel the shift in their dynamic. The easy connection they had felt for weeks was suddenly strained, and Angel found herself contemplating whether this was a sign. Was this how it always went? Building up anticipation only to have it dashed at the last moment?

“I’m just… upset. I was really looking forward to seeing you,” Angel admitted, letting out a shaky breath. “But it’s okay.” The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken feelings.

Then, out of nowhere, Devil says, “Send me your address”

Angel froze. In that moment, her frustration cracked, and a flicker of hope ignited. Could he really be trying to salvage this?

She hesitated for a second, weighing her options. Did she want to give him her address and risk more disappointment? But as she thought about it, she realized that despite everything, a part of her wanted to take this leap. She wanted to believe in the possibility of something real.

“Okay,” she finally said, giving him her address. Her heart raced as she hit send, a mixture of excitement and anxiety coursing through her. All he responded with was “Okay.”

“Okay… what?” she asked, carefully, wanting to clarify but also hoping for good news.

“Okay, I’ll see you in an hour.”

Angel felt a rush of adrenaline. An hour. The anticipation of finally meeting him sent butterflies fluttering in her stomach, but it also brought a flood of uncertainty. Was this really worth it? She had been so ready to leave and go back to her life, to the safety and familiarity of Normal. But now, the thought of possibly stepping into something new and exciting with Devil felt like an intoxicating risk.

As she paced her room, thoughts raced through her mind. What if he flaked again? What if he was just a nice guy behind a screen, but in real life, it all fell apart? She felt a swell of anxiety, but she also knew that she couldn’t let this opportunity slip away.

For the first time in a long while, she was torn between two worlds: the comfort of her old life, which was so easy to slip back into, and the thrilling uncertainty of something new. She had been counting down the days until she could return to Normal, yet here she was, clinging to the chance of building something with Devil.

In that moment, she realized that she was at a crossroads, and despite the fear creeping in, she wanted to choose the unknown.

An hour had passed, and Devil was texting Angel to come outside. She couldn’t believe it. Just one hour ago, she was ready to block him and hurry back to Normal, and now here she was, spraying perfume all over herself, ready to meet him with the biggest smile on her face. After his mix-up, she hadn’t expected to see him at all.

Yet, as she spritzed herself, she felt a flutter of excitement. Angel was used to expressing her frustration to men who didn’t seem to care or even try to fix things. This feeling was so unfamiliar, yet here she was, in an unfamiliar situation. Devil had acknowledged her feelings and immediately wanted to make it right. That simple act of consideration felt like a breath of fresh air.

Angel stepped outside and spotted an unfamiliar gray Sinatra car with tinted windows parked right in front of her house. “Damn Chicago men and their tinted windows,” she thought, her heart racing with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. She had no idea what she was stepping into, really, but the thrill of the unknown beckoned her forward.

She climbed into the passenger seat, and there he was—the guy she had met on the app that usually showcased a parade of terrible men, now sitting right next to her. Devil wore black pants and a graphic t-shirt, a black hat perched atop his head. His diamond earrings caught the light, and a nose piercing added a hint of edge to his already striking appearance. He looked exactly like his profile on Tinder but somehow even cuter in person—better. The closeness she had felt over the phone transformed into something electric, amplified by the proximity of their bodies.

“I can’t believe you came,” she said, unable to contain her smile. The nerves were still there, but they were overshadowed by an exhilarating rush of hope.

Want more? Well, You’re in luck! Heres Chapter 2

https://balladsofthe20somethings.blog/2025/03/29/angel-meets-devil-2/

Tags fiction, love, romance, short-story, writing