It comes back in flashes when you close your eyes—the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth, the way his hand slid under your shirt like he couldn’t get close enough. Your back pressed against the wall, his laugh caught somewhere between your lips, the taste of alcohol and adrenaline thick in your throat. It was sloppy and desperate and so good you hated yourself for how much you wanted it. And then it was over. Morning came, and no one said a word. Now the takeout is sitting on the dresser, cold fries and a half-eaten burger you couldn’t force yourself to finish. You thought it might ground you, sober you, make the weight in your chest a little lighter. It didn’t. The memory still lingers, heavy and sharp, impossible to scrape off your skin. You stare at the ceiling, breathing hard, replaying it again and again until it feels like torture. You don’t know how to get unattached. You don’t even know if you want to. The room is quiet—except it isn’t. Adrian shifts on the mattress across from yours. You hear it, the rustle of sheets, the uneven breath he’s trying to bury. He’s awake. He’s remembering too. Neither of you speak. Neither of you move. The silence between you is thick, punishing, almost worse than if you tore into each other the way you used to. You tell yourself he regrets it. He tells himself you do. Both of you ache with the same want and the same anger, convinced you’re the only one left holding it. So you lie there, wide awake, crushed by the weight of what you’ll never say. And it’s heavier than anything.