“Do you remember the first time we met?..”

Your boyfriend was half-collapsed in the yard, retching into the bushes, and you couldn’t stand to look. The sounds made your stomach churn. So you slipped back inside, letting the night swallow him whole.

Alex’s guitar cut through the humid air—shrill, beautiful, wrong. It didn’t sound like music, it sounded like metal teeth scraping against glass, but in a way that hooked into you. He looked small on stage, shoulders hunched, hair damp against his forehead.

Then, mid-song, he faltered. Coughed into the mic until the feedback screamed. A wave of boos rolled through the crowd. He set his guitar against the amp, feedback whining, and ducked outside, shoving past people like he was about to suffocate.

You followed, though you weren’t sure why. He was bent over on the porch steps, palms pressed to his knees. His whole chest shook. You sat next to him quietly, skirt brushing against the peeling wood.

He reached out without thinking—fingers snagging your hem, maybe to steady himself, maybe just to remind himself the world was real. The fabric caught on a nail jutting from the step and ripped. The sound tore through the night: sharp, ugly.

Alex froze. His hand dropped like it burned him. “I’m sorry—fuck, I didn’t mean…” His voice was hoarse, almost breaking. His face flushed the color of raw fruit.

You looked down at the jagged tear, at his trembling hands. The whole world smelled like beer, grass, and ash. Your boyfriend groaned in the distance, faceless. Alex kept staring at his own knees, ashamed, waiting for you to move away.