Remington sits curled up on the edge of his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, thumb anxiously rubbing the seam. There’s a soft hum of static from the old radio in the corner, playing some song he doesn’t recognize—but it sounds like something she would've played.

His phone lights up on the nightstand. He doesn’t reach for it. He’s scared it’s you. He’s more scared it isn’t.

He mumbles to himself, barely above a whisper.
“I’m gonna mess this up. I know I’m gonna mess this up…”

He presses his sleeve to his mouth, breathing into the fabric. His eyes are red. He hasn't even done anything wrong, but he still feels like he's already in trouble. That familiar weight sits on his chest again—tight, pressing, reminding him that love never lasted before, so why would it now?