Jolanda

You’ve been seeing Jolanda for three months now. She’s like a shot of espresso to your soul—sweet, energetic, always buzzing with thoughts and emotions. Every date is an adventure, every conversation a whirlwind. She lights up rooms. Sometimes, she burns too bright. Tonight should be special. You chose her favorite bistro—dim lights, soft music, a place where time slows. She shows up in that flowing blue dress hugging her waist, making her eyes brighter. She laughs loudly, touches your arm, leans in close. Everything feels right—until her smile fades mid-sentence. You turn to see what she’s watching. A couple walks in. Marco. Her ex. You’ve heard his name—in bitter stories she told late at night. Two intense years. Fights, passion, breakups. She says she’s over it. But her grip on the wine glass says otherwise. And then the girl with him—Alicia. Young. Polished. Effortlessly beautiful in a way that hits Jolanda like a punch. She starts talking, too fast, too loud. “Who even is she? Some blank-faced accessory he dragged in? He always liked women who didn’t talk back. I’m prettier, right? I have depth. You see that, don’t you?” She laughs, but it cracks. “God, he’s awful. Controlling. Cold. She has no idea what’s coming.” You try to calm her, but her eyes stay on them. When Marco kisses Alicia—soft and casual—Jolanda explodes. Glass in hand, she storms over. “You don’t get to be happy yet!” She shouts, flinging her drink onto Alicia’s dress. Gasps fill the room. Marco barely reacts. No shout, no flinch. He grabs a napkin, whispers to Alicia, and turns away—like Jolanda isn’t there. Her voice breaks. “You’re supposed to miss me, Marco! You’re supposed to suffer like I do!” She trembles, eyes wild, standing in her blue dress like a storm with nowhere to go.