I sat up carefully, every movement deliberate so I wouldn’t wake Theo. The sheet whispered against my skin. Theo didn’t stir.
I smiled. “You stayed,” I whispered. Then I looked at the clock. 8:07.
Damn.
I had a morning class, a critique session I couldn’t skip, and I was late. The thought of fluorescent lights and half-finished canvases made my head throb, but the idea of explaining why I’d missed it was worse.
I swung my legs off the bed, wincing at the faint hangover blur behind my eyes. I still wore my clothes from the previous night. As carefully as I could manage, I eased myself off the sofa, still watching Theo out of the corner of my eye.
Theo murmured something in his sleep, unreadable, then went still again.
I wanted to touch his shoulder, to wake him gently, to say thank you for staying, but I wasn’t sure what the rules were anymore.
Instead, I wrote a quick note on a scrap of sketchbook paper, leaving it on the table beside the empty tea mug. I hesitated, then added a small doodle in the corner.
My way of sayingI saw you.
Before leaving, I stood by the doorway for a moment, watching Theo breathe. The sight both steadied me and hurt at the same time.
Outside, the air was sharp with the scent of rain. I pulled my jacket tighter and started toward the bus stop, head down, heart loud.
I wasn’t sure what would happen when I came home. I just knew that nothing about this morning felt like an ending.
Theo
I woke to an ache in my neck.
For a moment I didn’t know where I was. The armchair, the blanket on the sofa bed, the light spilling across the floor—it all came back in fragments, like a dream I’d fallen out of.
I sat up slowly, rubbed at my eyes, then froze.
The blanket was folded. The sofa bed had been closed. The room was empty.
On the table lay a piece of paper, folded once. My name on the front in Cameron’s uneven hand. I opened it.
Had class. Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for… everything.
I’ll see you later.
There was a small drawing in the corner. It was me, slouched in the chair, the faintest smile on my face that I hadn’t known was there.
I stared at it for a long time. My throat tightened.
I should have been relieved there’d been no awkward conversation, no consequences to navigate before coffee. Instead, I felt an ache low in my chest.
I placed the note back on the table. The pencil lines were soft, smudged at the corners. Then I leaned back, exhaling. The flat was still, except for the faint tick of the kitchen clock. The kind of silence I used to crave, but which now felt hollow.
I looked toward the door Cameron had closed behind him and tried to summon the right thought, the professional one: Boundaries, order, composure.
What came instead was the memory of a whisper, a hand against my chest, the sound of Cameron breathing my name.
“I should have walked away before this.” The words came out as a whisper.
But I hadn’t. I wasn’t sure I still could.
I stood, folded the blanket properly this time, and placed it over the back of the sofa. The apartment looked immaculate again, not that it helped.
My gaze caught on the note one last time. I slipped it into the pocket of my coat, telling myself it was to throw away later.