I do. It warms nothing important, but it softens the edges. I pull out my guitar, the only peace offering I know. They ask for old tour stories; I deflect with half-truths. When conversation drifts toward frostbitten fingers and busted vans, I play something small to cut through it, a slow melody I wrote at sixteen, convinced the world would end if I couldn’t find the next chord.
Mara drifts down onto the mattress, settling across from me the way shy people do, slowly, so I can move if I want to. I don’t. She listens like it matters, like watching my hands might teach her a secret.
“You teach yourself?” she asks when the laughter rises somewhere else.
“Mostly. Other people showed me roads. I wandered them until one felt like home.”
“That sounds like you,” she says. She doesn’t mean it as a line.
The group thins the way it always does on nights like these, one lobby call at a time, another apology for sleep. The door shuts, and suddenly it’s just us. Mara’s close enough that our knees touch. It’s not an accident. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling like she’s asking permission without words. I should talk about early mornings, jet lag, anything but I don’t. I’m so fucking tired of this ache, and some stupid part of me thinks maybe, just maybe,this is the cure.
She leans in. The kiss is soft. I let it happen, even give a little back this time. But the second my eyes close, she’s there. Kasia, reflex. The weight of her hand on my jaw, the warmth of her skin, the way she’d melt into my mouth, laughter folded between her breaths. A thousand unrepeatable details crash through the dark behind my eyes.
This kiss isn’t that. No matter how much I want to, I can’tfeelpast her. It’s only ever her. Mara shifts closer; the mattress creaks. Her tongue grazes my lip, testing, reaching. I breathe wrong, like I’ve forgotten how. She pulls her hoodie over her head, then her shirt,two small, practiced motions and for one heartbeat I see myself from above: how easy it would be to step into the old script, to let momentum write the next scene.
I put my hand up between us on her shoulder, gently. “Wait.”
She freezes, trying to read me in the dim light. “If you want we can slow down,” she says softly. She takes my hand, guides it beneath her bra, cupping her breast. I pull away, careful.
“It’s not speed,” I say, voice wrecked. “It’sme.”
Confusion and embarrassment cross her face in quick succession. She scrambles for her hoodie, armor first. “Did I—? I mean, is this—am I—”
“No.” I shake my head. “You didn’t read it wrong. I’m attracted to you, you’re great.” I breathe in, feel it bruise. “I just thought I could.I can’t.”
She glances at the door, pride warring with retreat. “Oh. Okay.”
She searches for her shirt. I reach it first, not to rush her, just to hand it over, an attempt to make this less humiliating.
“Here,” I say, eyes fixed on the carpet. “Take your time. I’ll wait over here.”
Silence. Then, through rejection and hurt: “I wish you’d said something before. You didn’t have to—any of this.”
“You’re right.” I nod. “You didn’t deserve this, it’s my fucked up brain.”
Her eyes shine with anger she’s trying to swallow. “Next time,” she says, voice trembling, “tellRonanI won’t come along.”
The door slams hard enough to rattle the windows. I press my forehead to it. The wood is cool. I tap once, hard, like I can knock the memories out. Kasia, Mara, everything.
“Don’t wait for me,” I whisper to Mara, to Kasia, to myself. “I’m trying not to.” My hand flexes, like it burns from where I touched her,like I need to punch something again until I look at the bright scars on my knuckle.
I slide down the door until I’m folded on the carpet, knees up, face in my hands. Two stupid tears escape anyway. This isn’t like Emily, that was a slow fade, love starving for oxygen. This is the opposite. Kasia turned the lights on, she made everythingwild and alive.Now every song is haunted in her shape, and even kindness tastes likedust.
I sit there until the heater clicks off and the quiet grows teeth. Ronan does our oldthree-tap knockat my door, a question without intrusion. Mara probably already read him the riot act for inviting her by now.
“You good?” he calls softly.
“Yeah,” I lie. “Just tired.”
His footsteps fade.The emptiness doesn’t.
Kasia
The house is still except for the cartoon credits coming from the TV. Zosia’s head has fallen against Dominik’s chest, her thumb slipping from her mouth. He brushes a strand of hair from her forehead, gentle in the way only a father can be and mouthsbedtimeto me.
He carries her down the hall. I follow, with her blanket. When she’s tucked in, I sit beside her for a moment, watching her chest rise andfall. The little nightlight throws soft stars across the ceiling, plastic constellations trying to mean something.
Dominik’s hand touches my shoulder. “She’s out cold.”
