Dylan: nothing like a bit of family drama to spice up the morning
Typing appeared almost immediately underneath Sean's name at the top of her screen.
Sean: mam literally needs to get herself together I'm sick of this
Dylan exhaled, the knots in her stomach pulling tighter. It was easy to hope that it really could be that simple. That her mother could just... decide not to care about something that really wasn't worth all this emotional turmoil.
Dylan: couldn't have put it better myself Sean: funny, seeing as your the writer
Sean: asksdf piss off you know I dont care about grammar
Sean: its a social construct, etc etc
Dylan: I mean yes, but I think we can also agree you only think so because you were rubbish at English
Sean: I can't be good at everything dill
Sean: it'd be massively unfair
Sean: it would be
Sean: im an adonis
Sean: god at maths
Dylan: do people LIKE people who are good at maths???
Sean: im basically a comedian
Sean: [replying to: do people LIKE...] yes. Yes they do
Dylan: right. That makes sense given how many friends you had at school
Sean: THAT WAS OUT OF ORDER
Dylan laughed, a deep, genuine laugh, for the first time that day.
For as long as she could remember, Sean had been the main constant in her life. They were only eleven months apart, but as children they'd moved as a duo, inseparable, as though they were actually twins. Most of her school friends hated their younger brothers, but (barring the Attempted Drowning of 1993) Dylan and Sean had always been as thick as thieves.
Dylan: somehow I think your ego will survive it
Sean: you're cruel
Dylan: that's what they tell me tea.
Afua smiled up at Dylan as she approached, five minutes later, with their tea.
"Ah, cheers, Dylan."
Afua accepted the mug and took a sip, and Dylan tried not to drop too pathetically back into her chair.
She loved her job—really, she did—but she also knew that the people who told you they loved their job (that they really did) were also the same people who spent at least thirty-six of the unnecessary forty hours a week staring up at the ceiling tiles wishing everything about said job was completely different. But Dylan did love her job.
It was just that her editor was fucking sadistic.
"How's it coming along?"
Afua was eyeing her over the edge of her mug. Dylan groaned and leaned back in her chair, barely stopping herself from going full teenage angst and throwing her head back against the headrest.
"I don't know anything about astrology. Chantel just gave me this assignment to torture me."