I didn’t evenhearthe door until it was slammed shut.
Click.
Snap.
I shift in my seat and reach for a tiny figurine, my fingers fumbling it twice before I manage to clip his miniscule sword into his palm.
It immediately falls out.
“Same, little dude, same.” I stare at the plastic knight like he’s the only one who understands the wreckage that is my brain.
I slap a flat tile into place harder than necessary.
It’s not like I planned for it to happen.
It’s not like I was purposely pleasuring myself, mid-jerk and at my most vulnerable, so that she’d walk in and findme. Eyes closed. Mouth open. Still, somewhere underneath the humiliation and the swirling thoughts ofshe cannot live here anymore, there’s a primal part of me that can’t stop replaying it on a loop.
Her breath catching.
Click.
Snap.
I haven’t felt this way in years. Not since Bella, my last girlfriend.
We met sophomore year of college; she was actually from my hometown, but we’d never spoken when we were in high school. Bumped into her at a frat party and we were inseparable after that. We bonded over our affliction to socializing, and our love of poppy-seed muffins.
Bella was comfortable and steady.
Loyal to a fault but also: jealous.
Click.
Another turret piece snaps into place…
Bella had her moments. We had our moments. But things with her had been predictable—relaxed in the way your favorite hoodie is, even after it gets worn and loses shape. She liked her plans detailed and planned far in advance.
What she didn’t like?
My popularity on campus when it became clear that I would be entering the NHL draft our junior year.
It was all downhill the day I submitted my eligibility.
Suddenly, late practices were suspicious. Group projects meant I was cheating. Andgod forbidI missed a Friday night movie marathon because I had a team meeting—I must be hooking up with someone in the locker room.
Then came the questions. The accusations. The veiled digs about any female student who so much as said my name in class.
She even went through my phone.
Click.Snap.
“There are you.” A familiar voice clears her throat in the doorway. “Thought I would find you here.”
And just like that, my chest gets tight.
I raise my head slowly, afraid of what I might see on her face: Disgust. Revulsion. Dislike.
But it’s none of those.
