… I hear the vibrations of the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth.
“Yas?” I call, half into the phone and half into her apartment. “Yas, you here?”
Then: “You have reached Yasmin Kaur. I’m out doing hot girl s**t. Be a doll and leave a message, kthxbyeee!”
I reach into my tote bag and fumble through all my various belongings until I find the spare key she gave me years ago. My hands are shaking so bad I can barely fit it in the lock.
“C’mon, c’mon, you stupid freaking—” I finally manage to turn the key and shove the door open.
The living room is unoccupied. Her laptop sits open on the coffee table, a half-drunk glass of wine beside it. Jewel-toned throw pillows are scattered across her velvet couch and strewn all around the floor like someone threw them in a fit of rage. Neon string lights
