your credit score says your name instead, one night with a new fling. they throw your credit score out. your credit score walks home in the dark, shame burning on their face. your credit score feels hung over the next morning despite being sober
your credit score sets fire to the mixtape they made you, that you gave back to them the last time you talked. they smell the acrid smoke on their skin for weeks, no matter how they scrub themself raw. your credit score regrets destroying something that was once so tender and vulnerable.
your friends tell you that your credit score is still asking about you. you ask if they've said anything to your credit score and they shake their heads. "of course not." you wonder why they still talk to your credit score though
"YOUR CREDIT SCORE MISSES YOU," says the note left on your front door. the door is unlocked, though you know you locked it this morning. the knob is wet beneath your hand. you know you should call someone. not the police. never the police.
you see your credit score at the cafe. it's not the same cafe you used to go to together. you had to find a new one after you left your credit score. it brought back memories for you, too. you want to be surprised, but seeing your credit score in person just makes you feel sad and empty for them.
"you shouldn't be here," you tell your credit score. you walk out without your drink, before your credit score can answer. on Monday, you ask your boss if that transfer to another city is still on the table.
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instead, you open your front door.