It had been four months since you and Patrick broke up, and you think you were doing better. Thought. Thought you were doing better.

Up until now, you'd been good. It's not like you two were no-contact, you were friendly enough if you ran into each other or were at the same party. You would text each other if you had something to say, but there were certain topics you wouldn't breach. The people he'd slept with since the breakup. The people you hadn't slept with.

There was a part of you that was just sitting there, waiting for him to realize that you've been single since, wanting for him to muse about giving it another go.

Maybe that's why you were at his place, bottle in hand, sitting next to him on the floor with your backs against the wall.

Yeah, you were friends, but it had gotten to a point. You knew you'd be sick in the morning, from the alcohol or from swallowing your words or from the way he'd just told you about something that he saw while he was on a date the other day, tactfully talking around having to actually bring up a girl or the word "date". Most likely, though, you'd be sick over all of it. Especially if you let him convince you to stay the night for your own safety.

He had his own bottle in hand, something darker than your own, but equally as cheap. Shit, you missed him a little too much now, silently spinning out next to him and just wishing with everything in you that he would pull you in.

He finally noticed something, hand on your thigh pulling your eyes over to his face. "I'm right here, what's wrong?"