Jack, pulling on a clean shirt, looked at his sister and his roommate. “Same time next month?”
Jack was quiet. Later, he’d admit he saw his own arrogance reflected back at him—the way he used “deep thoughts” to avoid feeling shallow. Q felt hollowed out, but in a clean way, like a room after a party.
“This is a bad idea,” Jill said, sitting cross-legged on the worn-out couch. “Set and setting, Q. You’re in a bad headspace.”
Jill put on a familiar song—one they’d all danced to at a high school party years ago. The mundane melody cut through the existential fog. Q began to cry, but it was the clean kind of crying. Release, not despair.
“I’m breaking,” Q whispered. His skin was pale, pupils blown wide. “I’m not coming back.”
