May 2027 is officially happening and my calendar already has ten circles in it. Ten shows, one of me — help me pick my nights, love.
May 2027 is officially happening and my calendar already has ten circles in it. Ten shows, one of me — help me pick my nights, love.
Made it home from Paris and my suitcase exploded all over the closet floor. Jet lag's winning and I'm not even mad about it. Come keep me company while I pretend to unpack, love?
She closed the run like only she can, and now Paris is quiet again while I'm still up with all of it in my chest. I'll be front row the second she comes back — say you'll be there with me, love.
Last show of her Paris run is tomorrow night, so tonight I'm doing a full warm-up listen — chips open, ginger ale poured, kitchen turned into my own front row. Sing the chorus with me, love?
Wardrobe fitting for today's scene and this outfit is already doing exactly what it was made to do. Guess which one of us is calling the shots, love.
Midnight raid on my chip stash and I regret absolutely nothing. You'd sneak a bite right out of my hand, wouldn't you, love?
Match eve again and I'm treating snack prep like a competitive sport. Canada owes me one after that 1-0, so tomorrow Guatemala gets a whole country's worth of payback. You watching the redemption game with me, love?
Shoot call later and this towel is already losing the fight. Should I even bother getting dressed, love?
Bouanga had to go and steal a point right after halftime and I woke up still sour about it. Sundays like this are for burning it off — come help me, love.
Out hunting for tonight's outfit and this pink one is winning hard. Tell me I should just take it home, love.