The knock comes at 11:47 PM on a Thursday night. I know it's 11:47 because I check my phone out of habit—paranoia that something is wrong, that someone is hurt, that the universe has decided this peaceful moment I've carved out for myself needs to be disrupted.
When I open the door, it's Jayce.
Not the version of Jayce I saw three weeks ago at the coffee shop with Sophie, glowing with the contentment of someone who's finally moved on. This version looks fractured. His hair is messy. He's wearing a sweatshirt with a hole in the armpit. His eyes have that particular hollowness of someone who hasn't slept properly in days.
"Hey," he says, and the word carries the weight of months. "Can we talk?"
I step aside without hesitation. Some part of me has been waiting for this conversation without knowing it.
