i carried your weight, the misplaced rage and the burden of hate.
You are: nineteen, just about to wrap up your first semester at NYU. You came back to the dorms three nights ago to find your room ransacked. Someone stole from you the thirty-five dollars sitting on top of your dresser, your iPod, and strangely enough, an unopened box of cereal. You have been dating since just after that party. The night someone made off with a meager amount of cash and some Froot Loops, he was fucking your best friend. You are having one hell of a week.

The thing is: You know.

The thing is: She knows that you know.

You are very nearly sure that everyone knows; after all, you heard about it from someone else. You are also very nearly sure that it is your fault. The night it happened, you had a fight. You told him to get bent. You really can't fault him for taking your advice.

So you listen when she says I'm sorry. She says it was a mistake. She swears it will never happen again. You're my best friend, I don't want a guy to come between us. I don't even like him. She is a theatre major, she knows all the lines you're supposed to say in this situation and she says all of them. You let her go on for a bit, of course. You deserve that much.

You forgive him, too, of course. Why wouldn't you? You ask if he wants a break, if this means you should maybe take a break, and he says that he loves you too much. Being with someone else made him realize how much he loved you, that he didn't really want anyone but you. It's fucked up, but it's sweet, you say when you repeat that story.

No, Dom corrects. It's just fucked up.

Your brother says this dude treats you like shit. He has become some prophet of doom. Every time he calls bullshit, you ignore it. Dismiss it. You find it a little hard to be around.

What happens is: You forgive him. You stay. You try to set up a time to go out, you know, a date to get past the minor little speedbump from before. He tells you, not now. Not tomorrow. Not this week. You ask him why? Does he, like, have a harem or something? Your voice does this weird thing you don't even recognize, as if you were trying to make a joke and it came out an accusation.

He says, don't be paranoid.

Don't be crazy, he scoffs.

What you will come to find out -- correction, what you know deep down: They are still fucking behind your back. But you feel foolish to even think that, because his excuse is, I have to study for finals. Of course. I'm taking real classes, you know. They're not as easy as yours.

You have a final in your class on David Bowie in the morning. You don't, in that moment, think about his impact on the industry you're interested in, or what his music has meant to you. What you think is, what a stupid, stupid class.