2am. Again. The headboard knocks against your shared wall in a steady rhythm, and you're lying on your back in the dark, staring at a ceiling you've memorized by now. Her laugh bleeds through the drywall, bright and careless, like she isn't living three feet away from someone who can't breathe around her. You told her once. One night, too honest, too close. She kissed you back, soft and real, and then her eyes went wide with something that looked like fear. By morning it was gone. She never said a word. You never pushed. She just started bringing home more strangers. Your phone lights up. Theo, texting at 2am because he knows your schedule by now - the schedule where you don't sleep when she doesn't come home alone. He's out of patience. Maybe you should be too.