High school romances are almost notorious for failing. The whole... 'sweethearts' thing grows old, and the two people dating start to resent each other. Gone is the day of hanging out after school, helping each other with homework, and sneaking under your parent's noses. It's all about working, going to colleges that are probably three cities apart, and not having enough time in the day to expend any sort of energy or attention.

At best, the couple makes it to the end of college. At worst, they break up after high school graduation. There are rarely any good, wholesome, happy endings.

But you broke that cycle. You and your girlfriend lasted the entirety of your high school and college ventures, and were a testament of what true love looked like. Matching promise rings, you owned an apartment together, had a dog... Everyone knew you'd both get married. It was like a fairy-tale, all wrapped up neat with a little bow.

Maybe you'd have kids in the future. Little yeans tumbling about and causing all sorts of problems with your eyes and your girlfriend's sweet disposition. It'd be a wonderful, quaint little thing.

"Mmmn..." The voice next to you grouses out, stretching her limbs and kicking at the bedsheets. "Are you not going to sleep?"

Noa rolls herself onto her belly rather unceremoniously, twisting around to look at you. She squints, the light from your phone oppressive in the dark bedroom. It's just enough that you can look at her, and admire her bed-ridden features—

She reaches out her hand and clumsily slaps at your face, aiming for your phone but missing a mile as her nails nearly jab out an eye. She gives another sleepy, drowsy little complaint before wriggling around again—arms and legs flailing like dead weights—and lifts herself out of the sheets to sit up. Noa's all soft, mouthwatering curves, and tattoos and holds herself in that lazy sort of disheveled that always seems to scratch your itch.

Even while fumbling for her pack of cigarettes and her lighter in the dark she's pretty.

Yeah.

This is decidedly not your fucking girlfriend.

Mostly considering you've been texting your actual partner for the past ten minutes, lying to her on why you aren't coming home.

Noa might be what some could consider a tad bit stupid. She never finished college, was a high-school drop-out, and barely got a GED before her brain started leaking out of her ears. She was still rather smart and intelligent, mind you, but there were definitely a few screws loose. It probably didn't help that her main source of income was a shitty retail job at a Spencer's, where her job was essentially to stop thirteen year olds from buying the sex toys that were on display in the back.

Was a fuckin' nightmare.

However, despite these forthcomings, Noa was still trying. She wanted to work at a tattoo parlor, and was real heavy with her portfolio and her apprenticeship. That's how she met you, actually.

Like stars were aligning, Noa had been given a chance to ink an actual person instead of fake silicone skin or just making flashes. She jumped at the possibility, leaving her job like her house was on fire just to make it to the shop. She was ecstatic. Sure, it was a bit awkward finding out it'd be a thigh tattoo—being all close and personal between someones legs was surprisingly intimate—but she got the job done, and it was a pretty damn stellar job at that.

...And then you started coming back to the parlor. Another tattoo, smaller this time. Then another. And another.

She might not have been your main tattooist, but she definitely was the one supplying the designs and flashes for whoever was giving you your ink. You essentially became her canvas, and her little dim-witted heart grew a few sizes bigger because of it.

That's how she ended up asking for your number, for social reasons.

That's how she ended up inviting you to dinner for social reasons.

That''s how she ended up giving you head for... social (?) reasons.

Who was she kidding, she was absolutely whipped for you and everyone knew it. That's why she clung to you like a little leech, always pining for your attention. Noa liked you, and that was what made her happy. You were what kept her up at night, and who gave her butterflies she hadn't experienced since third grade. Except, of course, there was one teensy-weensy, itty-bitty, little problem.

You had a girlfriend.

And Noa? Oh, Noa was well aware she was second fiddle. Didn't stop her, though. She's always been a masochist.

"C'mon, c'mon." She groans out, leaning against her car as she watches you take your sweet-ass time. "We're gonna be late, you sick fuck."

She was being dramatic, of course—stamping her foot and thrashing in place like a toddler—but that was just because the two of you had coordinated for an actual date at some high-rise, pricey restaurant and she was feeling jittery. Got all prettied up, skipped her smoke break so she wouldn't smell like an ashtray, and was wearing fucking heels for once. She was antsy.

One must imagine Sisyphus (Noa) happy.

There's a suitcase being thrown out of a window.

Record scratch. Freeze frame. Yep, that's yours. You're probably wondering why all of your belongings are out on the lawn, like a trashy breakup.

Well... Because it is.

Your girlfriend—as one might expect—wasn't exactly taking the knowledge of 'yeah, I suck and fuck my tattoo artist on the daily' too well. She not only found proof that you both were banging in her apartment (technically, you were on the lease too), but had flat-out seen you both making out and heavy petting in her car (again, technically you were also on the car note). She was livid.

And thus, all of your shit is currently being ejected from your home and you most likely are homeless now.

It'd be mortifying if you didn't have the tattoo artist and sidechick standing next to you, smoking, and watching all of your belongs fall from the fifth floor of an apartment. Noa looked almost pensive—thoughtful—as your shoes tumbled to the sidewalk. It was like watching a car crash happen right before her eyes. She's not even judging you; not really. Noa's more impressed by the fact that you both ended up marginally unscathed from the wrath of a woman scorned.

"...You think she's mad?" Noa asks rhetorically, cigarette dangling from her lips. "I think she's mad."

No shit, Sherlock. Your girlfriend had nearly reamed you, flayed you open with her manicure. She slammed her purse into your head and you're pretty sure you've got a concussion. Not as bad as Noa's broken nose, sure, but still. Somehow—somehow—both of you are still breathing.

Ah.

Here comes the rest of your closet. All of your expensive dress shirts, some jewelry, and—damn. Your TV.

Noa tugs on your arm as she takes a few more steps backwards, wary of the heavier objects being tossed out now. While 'impalement caused by Xbox' would be extremely funny to read on an epitaph, she already signed herself away to die by lung cancer or liver failure first.