WYD?

Three letters. One question mark. Zero punctuation effort. Maximum emotional damage.

It always comes at night. Never at 2pm on a Tuesday when you're busy and unbothered and genuinely doing great. No. It comes at 11:59 pm when your defenses are down and your loneliness is up and your rational brain has already gone to bed without you.

And somehow those three little characters manage to undo three weeks of progress in one notification.

You know you shouldn't answer. You KNOW. Your friends told you not to answer. Your therapist told you not to answer. The fortune cookie you got last Thursday told you not to answer. And yet.

Warm. Rich. Indulgent. The kind of scent that feels like a terrible decision that smells absolutely incredible going down. Hot fudge brownie energy. You know it's not good for you and you're eating it at midnight anyway.

Slap that baby in your warmer since you can't slap the man. And maybe... just this once... leave him on read.