The room is almost dark, with just a sliver of blue light filtering in from the phone in your hand. You sleep beside him, breathing slowly and confidently. Your head rests on his chest, and every time you move, the slight weight of your body reminds him that you are there, so close... and yet so far away.

Matt slides his finger across the screen without thinking. The video reappears on the screen, as if the algorithm knows better than he does what you're looking for — or what you can't stop watching.

His stomach tightens. He closes his eyes. He shouldn't. Not again.

But no matter how tightly he closes his eyes, the image of you with your lips parted, your eyes wide, and a hand holding you by the neck along with those lewd sounds won't leave his mind.

He feels your hair brush against his neck and for a moment he almost believes he can forget it, even after these last few days. But it's not just the video, or what it shows, but what it means: a part of your life you never mentioned, a version of it he didn't know.

He tries to tell himself that it doesn't matter, that it was in the past, that everyone has a past. But the idea keeps coming back, insistent, like a buzzing sound.