Me: You fall asleep on me?
No response. No voice note. No typing bubbles.
I check the time. It’s 2:03 a.m.
Shit.
I glance back at the string of messages in our chat. The way the conversation unraveled easily, as if no time passed at all. I think about him probably curled in bed, one hand tucked under his pillow, hair messy and falling into his face. I remember how he looked when he didn’t need to mask his emotions.
I sit back against the headboard and let my eyes drift shut. For the first time in a while, I don’t feel as if I’m choking on what-ifs.
Noah
Apersistentbuzzingagainstthe side of my head drags me out of sleep, and I blink in confusion at my surroundings. Somehow, I fell asleep on my couch, curled under the throw blanket with one leg hanging off the edge. I grab my phone from under my head and kill my alarm, squinting at the screen.
…Then my heart drops.
I sit up quickly when I see Damien’s last message sent just after 2 a.m., and I realize I must have fallen asleep while we were texting. Last night had felt like old times, how we used to text even when we were sitting next to each other on the couch in the basement. It was silly, but it wasourthing.
I don’t respond to his text, though. It’s not because I don’t want to, I just don’t know how to say anything without sounding desperate or clingy. I’m not built for pretending; Damien has always been better at that than me.
So, I put my phone down and start my morning the way I always do.
I stand and stretch, roll my shoulders, then fold my throw blanket before heading to the kitchen. If I don’t follow my morning routine, my entire day will feel wrong. I think it’s part of the reason I felt so out of control living in the Sin Bin. My apartment is quiet enough that I can hear my own soft footsteps, but I like that. I like knowing what sounds belong to me.
I rinse my hands, start the kettle, and line up what I need on the counter in the same order I always do. Mug, spoon, coffee, sweetener, and creamer. I could do all this with my eyes closed, and that’s the point. It keeps me grounded when everything feels as if it might drop out from under me.
While the kettle heats, I open the drawer where I keep my meds. Then I place the pills beside my mug, grab a glass of water, and down them without letting myself hesitate. My brain tries to throw up the old resentment that I need chemicals to quiet the noise and be a functional person, but I refuse to entertain them. Today is not the day when I let my mind pick a fight with me over basic care.
Coffee first, then food, meds, shower, clothes, and classes. That’s the sequence that makes me feel less overwhelmed and more in control.
After preparing the coffee, I make myself two slices of peanut butter and honey toast because it’s quick and I can handle the texture right now. I pick up my phone and look at my calendar and to-do list, even though I know it hasn’t changed overnight.
Then, because my brain keeps circling back to the same thing, I go to my messages and open the thread with Damien. It’s weird to remember all the times I deleted his number over the past few years because it hurt to see his name on my contact list. I saved it again when I moved into the Sin Bin because some part of me couldn’t handle him being gone in every possible way all at once.
I’m so pathetic.
I stare at my coffee and wonder if wanting him is always going to be a wrong thing, or if it was only wrong when our parents were together. His mother moved out about a year after he left, and last I heard, she’s in Australia and already engaged to someone else.
Sighing, I push all those thoughts away and continue with my routine.
Between classes, I check my phone even though I tell myself I won’t. Sage and Nate have been wanting to come over, but I asked them to give me some time to settle in. My chest sinks every time I see that I have no new messages from Damien, then I scold myself for even feeling that way. I didn’t even text him back, and I can’t demand consistency when I’m not even reciprocating.
By noon, my head feels stuffed with cotton; today has just not been my day. As I’m walking across the quad, my phone finally buzzes, but it’s Adrian.
Adrian: Free period. Wanna meet up for coffee?
I stop mid-step, the cold wind hitting my face so hard that my eyes water. From what I’ve learned since getting to know him yesterday, he’s not quite like the others who live in the Sin Bin, and not one who texts casually. Adrian is intentional and precisewith his time, so if he’s asking me to meet up for coffee, it’s because he wants to.
Me: Sure. Same weird place that smells like cinnamon and pumpkin spice?
Adrian: It’s not weird, you just have no taste.
I snort quietly and let him know I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.
When I get there, Adrian is waiting in the corner booth we took last time—hoodie pulled up, but his red locks spill out from under it despite his attempt to tame them. His green eyes soften when they land on me, and honestly, it feels good to be looked at like that.
“Hey,” I say as I slide in across from him, just as a waitress walks out with two cups.
