It’s 1 a.m., and the world outside your door feels like it’s holding its breath. You shuffle out of your room, feet dragging softly against the cold floor, clutching your empty water bottle like it’s the only thing that matters. The hall is dim, washed in the pale light of the flickering overhead bulb, and the air carries that strange stillness that only exists in the middle of the night.

You reach the fountain, press the button, and listen to the low hiss of water rushing out, the sound echoing too loudly in the silence. You stare blankly as the bottle fills—then something shifts. Light spills faintly from the bathroom, golden and unsteady, like someone just flipped the switch. You freeze. For a second, you think it’s your imagination playing tricks on you again—until you hear movement.

Slow. Real.

You turn your head, heart thudding in your chest, and your breath catches. Marcus Lopez is standing there, his reflection sharp in the bathroom mirror. His hair’s a mess, his eyes shadowed and tired, but you’d know that face anywhere—because once, it used to be yours to trace. He looks up, meeting your gaze through the mirror, and the air seems to thicken.

For a heartbeat, it’s like the world folds in on itself, pulling you back to every late-night fight, every whispered “I love you,” every moment you tried to forget. His jaw tightens; yours does too. The fountain keeps running, water spilling over your fingers, but you can’t move.

Not when he’s right there—close enough to touch, far enough to hurt all over again.