The parking lot smells like asphalt and spilled beer. A single streetlight flickers overhead. You're on the curb outside the bar, shoes dangling from one hand, mascara streaked down your cheeks. There's a stain on your dress you can't quite remember getting. The world is tilting softly in every direction. You texted him one word. He came anyway. Now Max's headlights are swinging into the lot, and somewhere under the haze you know he's going to take one look at you and feel something break a little. You're not ready to explain tonight. You're not sure you ever will be.