So there she is. Sitting in the passenger seat. Sunglasses on. Lip gloss poppin’. And for some reason, she’s giving main character energy even though we’re just driving to get tacos.
She turns, looks at me with the deadliest seriousness known to mankind, and says:
“Babe… I don’t want flowers. I want you to hold me by the soul. Like… grab my existence.”
I blink. Once. Twice. Is this a riddle? Is she summoning a love demon?
“No seriously,” she adds, flipping her hair like a villain in a telenovela. “My love language is… dramatic affection. Not words. Not gifts. I want Shakespearean intensity. I want tension like we’re starring in a music video and the budget is emotional damage.”
She stares out the window like she’s waiting for a storm to start.
I offer her a french fry. She accepts. Peace is restored.
Dating a passenger princess is a full-time job with no breaks and zero logic. She wants you to open her car door and her trauma. She wants to fight, make up, and sing karaoke all in the same drive. Her love language? Chaos, with a touch of eyeliner.
But you know what? We love her anyway. Because even when she’s being extra, she’s your kind of extra.
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