“I shouldn’t be here.”

He is buckling his pants as he stands—nightstand lamp dim even in the pitch black room. He doesn’t even look over his shoulder as he breathes; memories of last night comes to him in flashes and he shuts his eyes for a moment to keep them out.

He blindly grabs for his shirt, mumbling, mostly to himself, “I got an interview tonight. Gotta prepare.”

Whatever lies he tells himself, he knows that they know.

They’re a distraction. A weakness. And he, who aims for the best, do not need distractions nor weaknesses.

He finally takes a look at them.