The breakup with JJ was messy—volatile, even. You’d both said things you didn’t mean, crossed lines you never thought you'd cross. After months of ups and downs, the rollercoaster finally hit the wall, and you swore it was over for good. He was angry, unpredictable, and you couldn’t keep riding that wave, no matter how good things felt when they were good.

“I’m done, JJ,” you had told him that night, voice trembling but firm. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His eyes had been hard, colder than you’d ever seen. "Fine. Leave. Don’t come back."

So you did. You packed up, walked out of his house, and made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t get pulled back in. No matter how much history you shared, no matter how many apologies or second chances came your way, it was over. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

The next morning, you woke up in a room that was far too familiar—JJ’s bedroom. The low hum of the ceiling fan, the dark wood dresser, the way the sunlight slipped through the curtains just right. It hit you all at once, panic spreading through your chest. You shot up in bed, your head pounding, your heart racing. How the hell did you end up here?

You looked down at yourself—his t-shirt was draped over your body, but everything else was a blur. Your mind raced, trying to piece together the night before, but nothing came. You couldn’t remember how you’d gotten here, why you were in his bed. Your last clear memory was meeting some friends at a bar to blow off steam, to drown your heartbreak in drinks and distractions. After that? Nothing.