The morning after is worse than the night before.
I wake up to find Zeke already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back to me. The early light filters through the blinds, casting stripes across his shoulders. He's wearing the same shirt from yesterday, wrinkled now, and his hair is a mess.
He doesn't turn around when I sit up.
"Hey," I say quietly.
"Hey."
The single word carries the weight of everything we're not saying.
I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. The sheets smell like him, like us and it makes my throat tight. How many times have I woken up in this bed? How many mornings have we spent tangled together, talking about nothing and everything?
This doesn't feel like those mornings.
This feels like goodbye.
"We should talk," he says finally
