No crowd. No connection. Just the orangey red lipstick — too bold, too wrong, too perfect — the kind that only works on a woman who knows she’s the moment.

A dollar twenty‑five added to the ticket. Metallic light enhancing her edges, bending around her. Pastel pink gloss layered like a secret only she understands. Blood moon focus turning her into something you don’t forget.

She wasn’t who she once mourned. Barely an A. Definitely not an AA. The crowd and the connection — all disposed of. Her mind wiped clean, data gone, cookies cleared.

She kept only one thing: that interesting creek in the floorboards drifting through the 3 AM air, sending goosebumps down her temples. Pupils dilated.

She always kept the light string ready — steady, waiting, a pull she never used. She never even wanted to. Not when his crown set so euphorically, so beautifully, so perfect across her dilated goosebumps and the 3 AM chill.

His crown. Her crown. Now she understands.

She wasn’t a Barbie. She was a dabble — a test run — into what he was actually into. He wanted three months, give or take.

Turns out… here we are.

She isn’t the Barbie she was. She was always cold. More breeze. More tornado, less chill.

(Your king whys are literally the queen’s whys — because just like you’re looking back at yourself from your own perspective, she’s doing the same. Through the demon rays gleaming off the reflection of that pose she’s owning, she sees it clearly now.)

Now that her natural lashes carry a hint of black and a touch of white glitter pencil beneath the bottom lids, she holds the stance — the held‑at‑a‑tee posture — because she still has to hit the timer button.

Pastel full moon lips. She is trending.

Who is she trending for? Anyone, in a sense — but her tunnel senses pick up the energy waves leaving that half‑drank Saratoga sparkling water, feeling like his lips just tasted like a moon of hunger. A howling hunger.

Whose hunger echoes loudest.

The king — with every step you take, every glance. Or the queen — breathless, opening the door to see that beautiful blue, euphorically almost perfect bottle. She grabbed her blue wineglass and imprinted reddish pastels on the side of the glass.

The hunger starts in the knowing — the moment she signs off the relief of his freshly packaged water. The king always knows when his queen is needing, or vice versa.

Except here we are, still in this game of who will miss who first. Who will shake. Who will wake. Who will bake. Who will pay. Who will break.

Remember — he just wanted a dabble, not this Barbie. Who wants a dabbled‑out Barbie? That’s way before you have to think about anything to have made it. You’re just Barbie.

He knew you were never his Barbie. You were his queen — his honestly, his whatever he would’ve enjoyed hearing you say into his brown eyes, so loudly listening to you.

She’s that Barbie. She’s that queen. He’s that king.

She still has a question.

Is he worth it.

I think now she wants to dabble.

Remember when we all had a conversation on the company you keep?