The next morning, I wake up feeling like I’m floating. Adrift in my own body, like nothing’s quite connected. My chest is tight, my throat sore, and there’s a familiar hollowness I haven’t felt in years.
Not since Brandon.
God, I haven’t thought about him in forever. But this ache? This sharp, quiet emptiness? It’s the same.
We met in my English Lit class sophomore year. He quoted Auden and wore cologne that smelled like old books and expensive ambition. He was everything I thought I wanted. Smart, sophisticated, the kind of guy who drank espresso and had strong opinions about film adaptations.
And for a while, I believed I was special. Until I found out all he really wanted was Sam. Not me. Not my stories. Not my smile. Just access. Turns out even a pretentious, know-it-all douchebag is still susceptible to wanting backstage passes totheSam Stone.
And now, years later, it’s not Brandon I’m drowning in.
It’s Will.
Different man. Same ache.
Same feeling of being chosen, only to realize I was never really what they wanted in the first place.
I swallow.
I think that’s what hurts the most.
I’m nothing to Will. Just like I was nothing to Brandon. Just a placeholder. A warm body. A shortcut to someone else.
Eventually, I force myself out of bed, but everything feels heavy. I should eat, but my stomach turns at the thought. I should shower, but I can’t even bring myself to take off this nightshirt. The one that still smells like old detergent and quiet disappointment. So I sit. Staring at the wall. Wrapped in silence that clings too close.
That’s how Sam finds me when he shows up, keys jangling, boots loud against the stairs, the door creaking open like it already knows something’s wrong.
He steps inside, eyebrows pinched. “Are you sick?”
I let out a soft, joyless laugh. “No.”
He studies me, really looks at me. “Something’s wrong. I haven’t seen you like this since?—”
Since Brandon.
I look away. “Just didn’t sleep well. It’s still weird being in town.”
That makes him pause. His jaw works, the guilt creeping in like it always does.
“I feel like it’s my fault you left.”
“It’s not. Promise.” I force a smile, even though it cracks around the edges. “How are Charlie and Sam Jr.?”
“They’re good,” he says, eyes still on me, like he’s waiting for me to break. “Charlie wants you over for dinner soon. And Junior’s trying to roll over, so that’s been exciting.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “He’s going to be hell on wheels.”
Sam’s smile is soft, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Takes after his aunt.”
That almost makes me laugh.
He walks into the kitchen, grabs a glass, and fills it with water like he’s trying to do something to fix whatever’s unraveling.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, quieter this time.
I want to say yes. I want to say it’s nothing. But the truth is sitting heavy in my chest, hot behind my eyes.
I nod once.
