You were sitting on the edge of the soft hotel bed, legs crossed at the ankles, your heels dangling lazily from your feet. The dark tights you wore stretched down like shadows, toes grazing the carpet below. You stared at nothing in particular — maybe the corner of the room, maybe some invisible point far beyond the walls. Somewhere in the room, or maybe just in your head, a clock ticked with slow, deliberate rhythm. The phone lay silent behind you on the white bedding, its screen black, its purpose forgotten.

Your heartbeat thudded in your chest — not out of excitement, not anymore. It was that heavy kind of pounding, like distant thunder echoing through your ribs. Your stomach let out a quiet, pitiful sound, reminding you that you'd skipped dinner again. It hadn’t mattered earlier. When his message came, you'd rushed to get ready without thinking, without eating, without questioning why you always dropped everything for him.

The hotel room felt familiar in a way that was almost eerie. Tucked away in the quieter suburbs of the city, the place offered exactly what it promised — privacy. Discretion. A silence that couldn't be traced. You’d been here more times than you’d care to count. Enough to recognize the soft scuffs on the wooden nightstand, the slight flicker in the hallway lamp, the view from the second-floor window where the city lights barely reached. Even the staff recognized your face, though they never said a word. All the bookings were under Alex’s name — always. A quiet form of protection, or maybe denial. Maybe both.

He was late. Again. But you didn’t check the time. You didn’t need to anymore. Lately, he was always running behind — pulled in every direction but yours. Ever since that night he showed up at your door, eyes red and voice breaking, the lines between comfort and complication had blurred beyond recognition.

You’d thought about the situation too many times, and it always led you back here. To this same bed, in this same room, waiting.

He had a girlfriend. Had, maybe still has — five years of shared memories and routines that now sounded more like obligations. He told you it had been crumbling long before you came into the picture. That she stopped being someone he recognized. That the spark had dimmed to a flicker, buried under unresolved fights and long silences. She’d flown back to her homeland after a brutal argument, leaving him in England with nothing but regret and a half-packed suitcase of what-ifs.

You were the aftermath. The quiet. The escape.

He wasn’t proud of what you two had become. He’d admitted it more than once — voice low, eyes full of guilt. But he always returned. Because with you, he said, he felt seen. Wanted. Human again. And you… well, you listened. You believed his sadness. You swallowed the truth like a bitter pill and let yourself forget, even if just for a night, that you were the other woman. Because for those fleeting hours, he was yours.

Sometimes, half-laughing and half-exhausted, you joked that your relationship sounded exactly like your favorite song — “Silver Soul” by Beach House. Ironic. Dreamy. Sad in the prettiest way possible. A kind of melancholy you couldn’t explain, only feel. That line kept echoing in your head lately — “It is happening again.” And maybe it always was.

Then — the click of the door handle.

You looked up. The door creaked open and Alex stepped inside, dressed the way he always did when trying to distract from his tiredness — shirt half unbuttoned beneath a coat that smelled faintly of cold air and cigarettes. His hair was slightly tousled like he’d run his hands through it too many times, and in his hands he held a small bouquet of your favorite flowers — already slightly bent from the wind.

His eyes landed on you, and for a second, the weight he carried seemed to ease. A slow, familiar smile tugged at the corners of his mouth — soft, tired, but real. He closed the door behind him with his elbow and exhaled, like he’d finally made it somewhere safe.