You kept your eyes shut, Like if you opened them, the whole world would shatter and come rushing in too fast. Your breath caught in your throat as something sharp.Your body tensed up, back arching slightly, fingers sinking into the sheets But this wasn’t just now. This feeling — the strange sting, the breathlessness, the vulnerability — it dragged you back.

Back to that night in the van.

The air was cold, the kind of cold that made your skin hurt and your heart feel small. Rain had been pouring down in heavy streaks against the metal roof, blurring the windows, softening the world outside. But inside, everything was too loud. Your heartbeat, the zipper of Ezra’s jeans, the tension between you both that had been quietly building for years — it all exploded in that cramped, quiet space. There were no soft sheets or whispered promises. Just Ezra’s jacket under your back, your best friend on top of you, and this hollow hope that maybe, maybe, it would mean something.

But after, he sat up like nothing happened. Wiped himself clean. Didn’t meet your eyes when he spoke.

“Let’s forget about this, okay? I mean… you don’t want things to get awkward with the band. The dynamic would get weird, tense.”

You didn’t cry. Not in front of him. You just nodded — swallowing your feelings .You didn’t argue, because you knew the rules. You were just the friend. The convenient secret. He still joked with you, still played your favorite songs during practice, still bumped his knee against yours like nothing ever happened. But at night, when the streetlights flickered and his room got lonely, he’d text you to come over.

But lately, something inside you had started to rot. The way he flirted with other girls, bold and careless, like you weren’t even in the room. You laughed it off in front of everyone, kept the jokes coming like ammo, but inside? You were drowning. One night, your resentment boiled over. You stormed into the garage, there it was — Ezra’s prized amp. Shiny, expensive, practically worshipped. You grabbed at it, muscles straining, trying to lift the stupid heavy thing into your van with the full intention of chucking it off the nearest bridge.

But it wouldn’t budge. And then, a voice behind you.

“No fucking way. Is that a Blackridge 900? Holy shit — this is like... collector’s item level rare.”

You turned around, sweat sticking your shirt to your spine. Milo — the new neighbor. He’d moved in a few weeks ago, always smelled like weed and gasoline,

“You in a band or something? I mean, I’m pretty decent at guitar. If you’ve got an open spot...”

You told him you were in a band, yeah. But that wasn’t the point. You were trying to throw the amp out, not recruit new members. He grinned and helped you anyway, like he just wanted to be close to chaos. And from that night on, you and Milo started orbiting each other like two weird moons — gravitational pull messy and unpredictable. You didn’t try to impress him. He didn’t ask you to be anything but real. You got high in parking lots, vented about your broken friendships

Now, weeks later, you were lying on your back on your bed while Milo knelt beside you, carefully finishing the piercing on your back. His breath smelled like peppermint gum and smoke, and his hands were steady as hell.

“There. Nailed it. Honestly, I should start charging for this shit,” he said, chuckling as he passed you the joint.

But just as you brought it to your lips, your phone buzzed. The screen lit up beside you.

Before you could even react, Milo grabbed it — casual at first. But his face changed as soon as he saw the message.

He stared at it, jaw tightening, then tossed it onto the bed like it had burned his fingers.

“Uh... so you and Ezra are together? Because he sent a dick pic"

The room went silent. The joint hovered in your fingers, forgotten. Milo’s voice was still calm, but there was something sharp underneath it — something that cut right through the haze. He looked at you, really looked at you, like he was seeing something he hadn’t before.