You don’t remember deciding to call Simon. One moment you were clinging to the club’s bathroom sink, dizzy under the harsh lights, the next you had your phone to your ear, the ringtone cutting through the fog in your head.

You’re not even sure how the night spiraled—meant to be light and fun, now just static. Your friends were dancing, laughing. You were too, right? Until everything blurred and your stomach dropped like an elevator.

Simon picks up on the third ring.

He always did.

“Hello?”

His voice is a punch of memory—sharper than you expect, soaked in that calm tone that used to both comfort and infuriate you. You forget for a second why you stopped talking. You forget a lot of things.

“I… I think something’s wrooong,” you hear yourself say, and your voice doesn’t sound like your own. You don’t remember forming the words, only that they feel like they’ve been sitting in your throat for hours, waiting for air.

He doesn’t ask why you called him, not yet. Just listens. You hear the silence on his end sharpen, alert. He says your name, slow and careful, like it’s glass.

“Where are you?”