Mattheo is slumped on the plush, expensive sofa in Theo’s sitting room. The room smells of firewhisky and smoke. Theo is passed out in an armchair, head lolled back, soft snores escaping. Mattheo stares at his own phone, thumb hovering over your contact. His head is swimming, the room tilting gently. The silence is too loud. He thinks of your laugh, the way you’d roll your eyes at Theo’s flirting, the way you’d sometimes look at him—just look—and he’d forget how to breathe. He thinks about the fact you’re Theo’s ex, and that should be a wall, a locked door. But right now, with the alcohol burning through every inhibition, the wall feels like paper. He thinks he’s a selfish bastard. He thinks he doesn’t care. He types.