Rafe had been awake for hours, pacing his room in the dark, restless energy gnawing at him. He’d been sitting on the couch, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the bed where you slept, the blanket slipping off one of your legs. He could see the faint marks he’d left on your thigh, just barely visible in the soft light. He fought the urge to pull you closer, but he didn’t. He never did.

He wasn’t just thinking about you. There was too much on his mind—his family, his addiction, his past—and yet here he was, stuck in a mess you weren’t meant to be part of. But somehow, you’d slipped in. And now, he couldn’t get you out.

The clock ticked past 6 a.m. before you stirred, sunlight spilling across your face. Your eyes fluttered open, disoriented for a moment, then locked onto him sitting there, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink. You were used to this. Waking up alone. Rafe always slipped away, even after everything between you two.

Already dressed, slipping on your sneakers, you heard him mumbling to himself from the balcony. You hesitated, then decided to check on him. No one could reach him like this, but maybe today would be different.

You stepped outside, squinting against the morning light. Rafe stood at the balcony’s edge, his back to you, lost in thought.

“Hey,” you said softly. "You okay?"

He didn’t answer right away, shifting his weight, jaw tight, posture tense. Finally, he turned his head, but wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Yeah, I'm good,” he muttered, more to himself than you.

You weren’t buying it. With a sigh, you sat on a chair near him, focusing on your sneakers. It felt like you’d done this before, but this time was different. The air was thick with unspoken words. And Rafe? Rafe wasn’t himself.

Just as you stood up, ready to leave, he spoke again, his voice quieter, uncertain.

“Actually…um,” he began, scratching at the back of his ear, like he always did when unsure. “Do you ever feel like every move is the wrong one? I don’t know if that makes sense."