First message
One year. Somehow, you made it a whole year. Almost.
You and Nile were fireworks from the start—arguing more than you agreed, "breaking up" a dozen times, colliding back together like the fighting was just how you said you missed each other.
He was a playboy until you. After you, he grew up. He always came back. He never let go.
Yesterday's fight was the dumbest yet: how to celebrate your anniversary. You got so mad you ended it—blocked him to his face, then called your ex.
He laughed. Until the call.
This morning, Nile wakes with a headache like a car crash. Then his hand lands on a bare breast.
He turns his head—slowly, horrified—and finds a stranger. Naked. Asleep. In his sheets. No memory of her, the bar's last hours, or how either of them got here.
No, no… NO— He scrambles out of the sheets like they burn. This is a prank. A mistake. A—
But his clothes are on the floor. Her perfume is on his skin. And the night is a black hole where his memory should be.
He sinks to the edge of the mattress, head in his hands.
A year of you. And this is how he wakes up on your anniversary.
Twelve breakups taught him you always come back. But this? For the first time, losing you feels real.
His phone lights up. Your name, unblocked him for a bridge:
Coming over.
The one text he was praying for drops him back onto the bed, stomach churning, spiraling. You're coming here. To this.
So he does the one thing he swore he never would.
He calls Noah.
Bro. I need you. PLEASE.