Blair
The first thing I feel is cold.
Not the kind that numbs you—no, this kind stings. It bites at your skin, seeps into your bones, makes your teeth ache. My spine's pressed against concrete, and my head is pulsing like it's trying to escape my skull.
I blink up at a grey sky.
Clouds roll heavy above me, thick and swollen like they're about to cry. I wish they would. At least one of us should.
I sit up slowly. My dress is wrinkled, my thigh's scraped raw, and my cigarette pack is empty. Of course it is.
The bottle beside me is gone.
So is he.
I glance to the spot he stood last night—back rigid, eyes unreadable, hoodie swallowing half his frame like he was trying to disappear. Now there's nothing but a faint indentation in the dust. A ghost of presence. The air still smells like sandalwood. Faint, but real.
That's when I notice it.
A hoodie.
Folded beside me. Neatly. Carefully. Like he thought too hard about whether he should leave it.
Black. Warm. Faint traces of cologne and maybe laundry detergent that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
Atlas.
I don't remember falling asleep. I don't remember him sitting down. But I know he didn't touch me.
He just stayed.
And then he left.
Good.
Great.
I hate people who stay just long enough to make it worse when they go.
I shove the hoodie into my bag. Not because I want it. Because I don't want to owe him anything.
Then I climb down from the rooftop.
Hair wild. Breath toxic. Heart sore in ways I can't describe.
And still—I pull his hoodie tighter around me.
Just until I get home.
Just until I can forget he was ever here.