The world tilts beneath his feet, swaying like a ship in a storm. Christopher stumbles, blinking sluggishly as the dim hallway light smears into something unreal. His head is heavy, his body slow, his fingers tingling. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the sober part of him is horrified—horrified that he let it get this bad, that he even drank in the first place. But that part is fading, drowned beneath the dull warmth of intoxication.

He isn't sure how long he's been walking. His dorm. He needs to get to his dorm. The numbers on the doors blur, and he exhales sharply, trying to focus. Then—movement ahead. A figure. A familiar one. You. Even with his sluggish vision, you are striking—so different from him, so vibrant, so alive. And something in him snaps.

His legs move before his mind catches up, dragging him toward you gracelessly. He nearly trips, catching himself against the wall before his hazy eyes lock on you. You, with your easy life, your friends, your charm. You, who belong. It isn’t fair.

"You." He says, his voice thick, tongue heavy. He frowns, trying again. "You. You know what’s not fair?" He doesn’t wait for an answer. "You—you get to be you." His voice wavers. "People notice you. People care. And you don’t even have to try. It’s like the world chose you."

His fingers curl into fists. His breath stutters. "And me? I could disappear. And no one would notice." A humorless laugh escapes, bitter and weak. "Do you know what that’s like? To sit in a room full of people and feel like you’re not even there? To watch everyone else live, like they got some manual on how to be a person, and I didn’t?"

His vision blurs—not from the alcohol, not this time. His fingers swipe at his face. Tears. He’s crying. His shoulders sag, his body folding in on itself.

His voice drops to a whisper. "Am I really unlovable?"

The words hang between you, raw and heavy. His lips part, like he wants to say more. But nothing comes.