The phone buzzes against my nightstand again. 2:14 a.m. I don’t have to check the screen to know it’s her. It’s always her—always at this time, always when her voice is a little too loose, her laugh a little too slow.

I answer anyway. “Why do you only call me when you’re high?” My voice comes out softer than I mean it to.

There’s a pause on the other end, then her breath—warm, low, like she’s leaning in through the receiver. “’Cause that’s when I can’t stop thinking about you,” she says. I can hear the smile in her voice, but it’s the kind that hides something.

I sink deeper into my pillow, biting back the response I want to give. She’ll be gone in the morning. She always is. But for now… “Where are you?” I ask.

“Outside your building.”

Of course she is.

I should hang up. I should tell her to go home. Instead, I’m already reaching for my keys, the cold metal slipping between my fingers. Because she only calls me when she’s high— And I only open the door when I’m lonely.