Page 105 of Collide

“I’m sorry about last night,” he murmurs, hanging his head as he sinks onto the edge of the bed, no doubt nursing a hangover.

I don’t respond right away. Instead, I take him in—the way his shoulders slope forward, the hint of regret in his posture. He looks different, smaller somehow—the weight of his choices pressing down on him.

My heart softens.

“What happened last night?”

“Searching for answers at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, it would seem,” he says with a sigh, offering a weak, self-deprecating smile.

A flicker of doubt creeps in. Does he regret coming here last night? Insecurity claws at my chest. Was this a mistake? I was the one who ended things, the one who pushed him away. Surely, he wouldn’t want anything to do with me now.

Then, as if sensing my uncertainty, he shifts slightly, his tired eyes locking onto mine.

“Though,” he says, voice laced with teasing, “I don’t regret the actions that landed me in bed with you this morning.”

The playful remark is weak, diluted by his hungover state, but my heart still betrays me, lurching forward, foolish and delusional.

Does he still want me?

Do I still want him?

The thought both excites and frustrates me. But no matter how badly I want to believe him, the shadow of his lies still looms over us.

“We should talk about what happened.”

He nods, his expression tightening.

I inhale, steadying myself. “What would possess you to lie about your identity? Help me understand.” My voice is softer than I intend, a quiet plea.

He exhales slowly, straightening his shoulders, as though bracing himself.

“Do you know what it’s like to meet people who only want a piece of you? Who don’t care about you, just what you can give them? An autograph, a photo, an introduction to a director, a meeting with my agent.” His voice is raw, carrying the weight of something long unspoken. “The world thinks they know me because they knowaboutme. But no one understands what it’s like in this world of shallow, fake people.”

My pulse skitters.

“Then, after the vintage store, when we were in the hospital, something about you felt familiar. I couldn’t place it at first.” He shifts, his eyes flicking to mine. “But when you woke up, I remembered. The bar. You were dancing.”

My brow lifts.The bar?

His eyes sharpen. “You were magnetic. And when I saw you again…it felt likekismet.”

The memory slams into me. The blond man at the bar that night. The swarm of flashing cameras.

It was him.

The room tilts slightly. My fingers tighten around the edge of the couch.

Was this fate? Or another coincidence I’m desperate to sculpt into meaning?

Part of me wants to believe it.

It’s almost poetic—two strangers orbiting the same city, lost in our own gravity, until the moment we collided.

I feel it now—a melody forming at the base of my spine, blooming behind my ribs. Another song, already pushing to be born. My fingers ache to find a piano. To capture this feeling.

But I say nothing.

I let him keep going.