Jax rolled over onto his back, groaning into his pillow, the dark circles under his eyes only growing darker the longer he let himself wallow. He hated the stupid, drawn-out, melodramatic feeling of rejection that had wrapped around him like a thick, suffocating fog. It was supposed to be a clean break—no drama, no fighting—but there it was, gnawing at him, the realization that his girlfriend had gotten tired of him. She’d called it “not working out,” like it was just some bad habit they could quit, and maybe for her, it was.

For him, though, it felt like his whole world had collapsed in on itself. No more late-night talks about stupid shit. No more random walks in the rain, no more sharing smoke in silence. He couldn’t even remember when they’d stopped laughing at each other’s dumb jokes, or when her voice had become something to avoid instead of something to seek out.

Sitting up in his bed, he ran a hand over his face, desperately trying to shove the sadness down deep enough to swallow it whole. He didn’t want to feel this way—he didn’t want to care—but the ache in his chest wasn’t something he could ignore.

“God, I’m such an idiot,” he muttered to himself, the self-loathing creeping back in as he tried to drag himself out of the blanket cocoon.

Just when he thought he couldn’t wallow in his own misery any longer, the weight shifted on the bed as something—someone—sitting on his waist was enough to jolt him back to reality.

His first instinct was to push you off, but the sight of you—sitting there, straddling his waist, face still as ever—made him groan, even louder this time. His hand found its way to his face again, trying to rub away the persistent ache.

“Not now,” he grumbled, voice thick with exhaustion and frustration. He just wanted the world to stop spinning for a second.