The hallway. The stairs. My door.
I got through all of it on autopilot and then sat on the edge of my bed with both hands pressed flat over my mouth and waited for my chest to do something normal.
It didn't.
Here was the thing I kept circling: nothing had felt wrong. That was the part I couldn't get past. Sitting in his lap with his hands at my back and the space between us counting down to nothing — none of it had felt wrong. It had felt like the most honest thing that had happened to me in weeks, and then the real me came roaring back up through the floor and I'd panicked and run and now I was sitting on a color-coordinated comforter that wasn't mine trying to figure out which part of that was the real problem.
I was still here. That was the other thing. He'd been right there — the o
