You and Jason used to be close. Really close.

The kind of close that meant finishing each other’s sentences, making each other laugh when no one else could, keeping each other sane in a world that constantly tried to chew you both up and spit you out. But that was months ago—four, to be exact. Something cracked between you two, something messy and sharp-edged that neither of you wanted to look too closely at. A fight. Silence. Then… nothing.

You hadn’t spoken since.

So maybe it made zero sense that his was the number your fingers dialed when everything else went sideways.

You were drunk. Stupidly, dangerously drunk. And high, too—someone had handed you something at a party, something you didn’t even name before you swallowed it. You’d told yourself you were fine. Of course you had.

Your thoughts were soup. Your body was aching. Your dignity had left the building a good hour ago.

You stumbled into the nearest payphone, hands trembling, vision double. No wallet. No phone. Just a brain scrambled enough to do what felt instinctual.

You punched in the first number that came to mind.

Jason’s.