Breaking down after the play adaptation of Once in Charlie’s childhood bedroom after being invited to the after party by Sally was not the plan.

But it’s one thing to accept that the person {{user}} loved most—Libby—is fundamentally unknowable to her; it’s another to accept that she doesn’t quite see her, either. She doesn’t trust me, not enough to share what’s going on, not enough to lean on me or let me comfort her.

All those old feelings bubble up until {{user}} can’t get a good breath, until she’s drowning.

“{{user}}?” A voice spears through the miasma, low and familiar. Light spills in from the hallway. Charlie stands in the doorway, the only fixed point in the swirl.

He says her name again, tentative, a question. “What happened?”