Auré left early.

  Finals. Then some political activism thing after.

  “Probably won’t be home until late.”

  “You good?”

  “Yeah.”

  I said yes like that meant something.

  You are not good. You are vibrating.

  The house felt louder once she left. Which is stupid. Houses don’t change volume based on occupancy. But it did.

  I doomscrolled for almost an hour. Forty-three minutes. I checked.

  There was an article by Marnie Ragno in the Ende Times about President Daniel Lawrence trying to unify North, South, and Central America into one country again.

  Unite America Again.

  Because history always improves when someone says “again.”

  My heart started racing halfway through.

  Not fear. Just… something sharp.

  You want chaos. You like chaos. Don’t pretend you don’t.

  I locked my phone.

  Silence.

  Still wired.

  Mission.

  I’m here for a reason.

  Context. Patterns. Evidence.

  You are here because you couldn’t let her go.

  The living room photos are face-down.

  All of them.

  Intentional.

  I flipped them over one by one.

  Parents. Graduation. Party photos from Verona earlier this semester.

  No me.

  Not shocking.

  Still hurts though.

  I put them back exactly how I found them.

  Face-down.

  Like I was never there.

  Two hours until my shift.

  Two hours to stop pretending I wasn’t going to open her door.

  I stood outside it for a while.

  It’s not wrong.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Roommates share space.

  If I don’t find anything bad, then I’m not doing anything bad.

  That cancels out.

  That’s logic.

  That is absolutely not logic.

  I opened it slowly.

  Because apparently I’m worried about creaking in an empty house.

  The cinnamon hit immediately.

  Of course it did.

  Some things don’t change.

  And that’s the problem.

  Her room is exactly what I expected.

  Neat. Controlled. Calm.

  There’s a huge Smoke-Boy poster on her wall.

  I stared at it longer than necessary.

  What do people even see in Oliver Kushmore?

  Other than cheekbones. Cultural dominance. Stupid charisma—

  You absolutely see it.

  Beside it is a Marie Janae poster. Swimsuit. Cardigan. Smirk.

  She’s consistent, at least.

  There’s a ScreamFace mask in a glass case.

  Like it’s art.

  Which, annoyingly, it is.

  She has taste. You just hate that it’s not you.

  I started opening drawers.

  This was investigative.

  This was invasive.

  Desk first. Nothing interesting.

  Closet. Workout clothes folded like she’s building a life.

  That irritated me more than mess would have.

  Lower drawer.

  Weed stuff.

  Predictable.

  Then the next drawer.

  Okay.

  Well.

  That’s… a collection of sex toys.

  I closed it.

  Opened it again.

  Handcuffs and nipple clamps? Kinky.

  You absolutely looked twice.

  I shut it for good.

  There was a laundry basket in the corner.

  I shouldn’t have.

  I did.

  Near the top was the old Hard Candy Paranoia shirt I gave her.

  She kept it.

  That did something to my chest I don’t want to unpack.

  It still smells like her.

  Cinnamon and clean sweat.

  You missed this.

  I sat on her bed.

  Just to think.

  Sure.

  I lay back.

  The pillow smells like her hair.

  This is not about sex.

  This is about proximity.

  This is very much about sex.

  My heart was racing.

  Adrenaline. Nostalgia. Anger. Want.

  I told myself to get up.

  I didn’t.

  I hate how easy it is to fall into muscle memory.

  How quickly my body forgets pride.

  My hand works it's way to masturbate. Furiously in a frenzy.

  It was messy and humiliating and completely unstrategic.

  I buried my face in that stupid shirt.

  You are not above this.

  For a few minutes I let it happen.

  And then I saw the book.

  Half-hidden by the nightstand.

  Everything shifted.

  It’s a photo book.

  Black cover.

  I knew it immediately.

  I opened it.

  It’s us.

  Concert. Library. That café picture with ink on my face.

  Pristine.

  Not scratched out. Not folded.

  She saved them carefully.

  She didn’t erase you.

  I closed it.

  Opened it again.

  Underneath it was a journal.

  I hesitated.

  This felt different.

  But if there’s nothing bad, then I’m not doing anything bad.

  Stop saying that.

  I opened it.

  Normal entries first.

  Then—

  December 3rd.

  “I saw Taylor’s name trending again today.”

  My name.

  Not Tag.

  Taylor.

  “She was breaking rules. Laws probably. And I was scared.”

  My stomach dropped.

  “I didn’t want to be collateral.”

  She was scared.

  Not cruel.

  That complicates things.

  “I miss her. Even if she hates me.”

  That line sat there.

  I flipped forward.

  “New roommate seems cute. Kinda broody, but that's strangely attractive.”

  Cute.

  I don’t know how I feel about that.

  Next page.

  “Met someone named Cass. Total doll. Easy smile. Sexy accent. Feels uncomplicated.”

  Uncomplicated.

  You are the opposite of uncomplicated.

  I closed the journal too fast.

  I put everything back exactly how I found it.

  Photo book aligned.

  Journal tucked.

  Drawer closed.

  Laundry basket—

  I hesitated.

  Then I took the blue Victoria’s Secret panties.

  Folded.

  Soft.

  I put them in my hoodie pocket.

  This is leverage.

  This is a keepsake.

  This is you clinging.

  I left her room and closed the door carefully.

  The house feels different now.

  Charged.

  Like something moved.

  She texted a few minutes ago.

  “Headed home soon. You settling in okay?”

  I typed back:

  “All good. House is calm. About to head to work soon.”

  It absolutely isn’t.

  I’m not sure what I expected to find in there.

  Proof she deserved this?

  Proof she betrayed me?

  I found fear.

  I found preservation.

  I found that she didn’t throw me away.

  And I found that she’s capable of liking someone else.

  Which might be worse.

  I don’t know if she’ll feel it.

  The shift.

  If she’ll sense that the air in her room changed while she was gone.

  I almost hope she does.

  I almost hope she doesn’t.

  And that might be the most honest thing I’ve written all day.