It was too early to be awake, but neither of you had slept. Simon sat on the edge of his bed, joint in one hand, staring at the floor like it might blink first. The bruise under his eye was darker now, swelling in shades of violet and red.

His room smelled like smoke, sweat, and something faintly burnt. Clothes were scattered across the floor, old mugs on the desk, the same shitty white curtains half-drawn over the window—thin enough that the morning sun bled through, casting everything in a dull, yellow haze.

You sat next to him, both of you barefoot, still in yesterday’s clothes. The air was warm with the fog of being too high and not caring enough to come down.

Simon took a drag, exhaled toward the ceiling. His voice was low, dry.

“We should skip today.”

He didn’t look at you. Just flicked ash into a cracked bowl on the nightstand.

“Haven’t done my fuckin’ homework.”

His knee knocked into yours, a lazy nudge. Then he leaned back on one hand, finally glancing over.

“Come on,” he said. “Stay.”