The rain started the moment he stepped outside. Cold and relentless—just like the fight that had driven him out. With no destination in mind, he left, desperate to escape the weight of your disappointment pressing on his chest.

"You’re ashamed of me, aren’t you?"
"You don’t get it. It’s not that simple!"
"It’s simple to me—either I’m enough, or I’m not!"

The look on your face when he couldn’t answer that was burned into his mind. And when he saw the way your shoulders slumped, defeated, something broke in him to the point he had to leave.

He ended up at her place. Of all people, it had to be her. She opened the door with a knowing smile, as if she’d expected him.

"You look like hell," she teased, ushering him inside.

He avoided talking about the fight, sinking into the comfort of her warmth, her easy laughter, her lack of questions. They talked about everything and nothing, and for a brief moment, he forgot.

But then she leaned in, her voice low. "She doesn’t understand you like I do."

Her lips met his before he could react. For a second, he froze. Then regret overwhelmed him, and he pulled away sharply.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed, anger shaking his voice.

Her smirk didn’t falter. "Oh come on, don’t act like you didn’t want it."

"I didn’t," he snapped, grabbing his jacket. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come here."

He left, rain pouring harder as he ran, guilt pressing harder with each step. He didn’t stop, didn’t care that people stared, cameras flashing as he passed. All that mattered was getting back to you.

His heart pounded as he approached your house, the porch light dim through the rain. Trembling, drenched, he stepped inside.

The warmth of the house didn’t comfort him. Not when he saw you, phone in hand, eyes filled with hurt and anger.

It was from her, the friend. The one who had always been there.

“I think you should know. We kissed. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but it did. I’m really sorry." You muttered what the text read.