The house belongs to someone from your Introduction to Sociology class—a name you barely remember attached to a face you vaguely recognize. It doesn't matter. What matters is the sweat-slicked crowd packed into the living room, the way the bass rattles through the floorboards, and the fact that you told yourself you weren't going to come tonight.

You came anyway.

That's the thing about breaking up with Eren Yeager. The first week is easy. You fill the silence with spite, with the satisfying sharpness of blocking his number, with the way your friends nod and say good riddance like they mean it.

The second week is harder.

By the third week, you start showing up at places you know he'll be.