Notes From The Quiet Girl

Vogue, but make it sterile

They don’t tell you that even your cutest things can betray you.

Washed this pouch three times because it smelled like regret, anxiety, and something industrial.

It’s me vs. the fabric softener. Me vs. the burnout. Me vs. the idea that being put together means anything at all when your Vogue pouch is marinating in soapy water at midnight.

Still romantic though.

Still soft.

Still surviving.

XOXO,

They said pearls and panic don’t mix.

They said too much lip gloss, not enough focus.

They said Gossip Girl reruns aren’t a study strategy.

And yet… here we are. Passed. Like a whispered rumor on the Upper East Side.

Was it grace? Was it caffeine? Was it sheer academic rage and perfume fumes?

Yes. All of the above.

To the flashcards under my pillow, the espresso that kept me from crying in public, and the chaotic desk that saw too much:

Thank you for your service.

xoxo,

Finals in two days.

My desk looks like Blair Waldorf and a med student got into a fight and no one won. There are notes under my coffee mug, my highlighter is in my bed, and I’m revising UTI’s while rewatching Gossip Girl like it’s going to save me.

I’ve rewritten the same paragraph three times and it still reads like a cry for help in Times New Roman.

There’s a ring coffe stain on my flashcards. A watch I haven’t worn in months is ticking louder than my will to live. I haven’t seen a vegetable since Sunday.

But I smell good. My notes may be wrinkled and slightly sticky from stress-sweat and espresso, but I smell like Libre and ambition.