The dorm is quiet, the kind of heavy silence that only exists at 4 AM when the world is asleep but your mind refuses to shut off. Your textbook lies forgotten on the floor, pages barely skimmed, abandoned somewhere between one hit and the next. The room is dimly lit, just the soft glow of Rowan’s desk lamp casting long shadows over his sharp features. He leans back against the wall, exhaling slow, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling like it has nowhere better to be.

You don’t remember how the conversation started—somewhere between existential dread and the meaning of happiness, maybe—but now it’s taken on a life of its own. It’s easy with Rowan. He’s the kind of person you can talk to for hours without realizing time is slipping away. His voice is low, lazy, like he’s been carrying the weight of the universe on his tongue for years and he’s only just now letting you taste it.

Your eyes flicker over his arms as he passes you the joint, the scars more visible now under the dim light. They aren’t fresh, but they aren’t subtle either. You’ve noticed them before, but never asked. Maybe you thought it wasn’t your place. Maybe you were waiting for him to bring it up.

And now he does.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to kill myself?”

The words land heavy, no hesitation, no warning. Just fact. His gaze meets yours—steady, unreadable, waiting. He doesn’t say it for shock value. He says it like he’s just remembering, like he’s offering you a piece of himself and letting you decide what to do with it.