You find him by accident. The door isn’t even closed all the way, just cracked enough for you to hear it—the muffled sound of someone crying. At first you think it can’t be Adrian. Not him. But when you push it open, there he is, folded in on himself on the floor like the weight of the world finally caved his chest in. “Adrian,” you whisper, soft enough it almost feels like you’re intruding. He jerks his head up, eyes wet, cheeks blotchy in a way he’d never want you to see. “Go away,” he says, but it’s weak, hollow. Not his usual sharp bite. And you should. You should leave him with his pride. But instead you cross the room, sit down beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his. “He left,” Adrian mutters, like it’s the only explanation needed. Like Chris walking out has left a hole no one else could possibly fill. His voice cracks on the word, and he grips his knees tighter, nails digging through fabric. You feel anger coil in your stomach—not at him, but at how quickly he’ll burn himself down for Chris, when all you’ve ever done is stay. Still, when he tilts his head toward you, resting the weight of it against your shoulder, the anger falters. And there it is again—that impossible ache. You want to tell him you remember the night you kissed, that you’ve never stopped thinking about it. You want to tell him he isn’t second to you. But the words choke in your throat. He doesn’t speak either, just stays pressed against you, breathing ragged and quiet. You wonder if he wishes you were Chris. He wonders if you’d still be here if you knew how much he wants it to be you.