In Two Minds

Draco awoke in the lift, as he always did. One moment, there was nothing—no sense of time passing, no memory of what had come before—and the next, the doors slid open, spilling him into the dimly lit corridor of the Ministry. It was disorienting, as it always was, but he had long since stopped dwelling on the feeling.

His journey home was a blur, the world moving around him while he remained still. The rhythmic tap of his shoes against the cobblestone echoed in his mind, and he welcomed the stillness.

When he finally stepped inside his apartment, he felt the familiar chill of an empty home. No voices greeted him, no warmth lingered in the air—just the sterile scent of old wood and parchment. 

But something was different.

A letter sat on his door mat, its crisp parchment catching his eye. The Ministry’s seal was pressed into the wax, pristine and formal. He set down his coat, loosened his tie, and slid his thumb beneath the seal, breaking it with a practiced ease.

Dear Mr. Malfoy,

We are delighted to inform you of your promotion to Manager of your division of the Department of Mysteries.

This promotion has been bestowed upon you in honour of your expert knowledge, leadership skills, and dedication when at work.

Please note that your work hours have had a slight adjustment to be recognised immediately, with a slightly earlier start time of 8:15 and a slightly later finish time of 17:45. Your salary will be adjusted to be in line with your new responsibilities.

Congratulations once again.

The Ministry of Magic

Draco stared at the words, rereading them twice, three times, waiting for a flicker of reaction to surface. A promotion. He had no memory of earning it, no recollection of what had set him apart. And yet, here it was, another step forward in a life he wasn’t fully aware he was building.

His fingers tightened slightly around the parchment. Did it matter? Did any of it?

With a quiet sigh, he folded the letter neatly and set it aside. A promotion, a pay raise, a longer workday—none of it changed the reality of his existence. He would wake in the lift. He would do his job, whatever that entailed. He would come home to silence.

And tomorrow, he would do it all again.

Draco exhaled slowly, setting the letter aside with a flick of his wrist. It fluttered onto the side table, landing atop a pile of similarly neglected correspondence. Promotions, pay raises, commendations—none of it mattered when half his life was a void.

He ran a hand through his hair and removing his tie completely, already shifting his focus to the rest of his evening. A change of clothes, a session at the gym to burn off the restlessness coiling in his limbs, and then—maybe—a drink with Cressida or Jane. Neither expected much from him, which was precisely why he kept them around. Easy, uncomplicated distractions.

But before he could take more than a few steps toward his bedroom, a sharp knock echoed through the apartment. He paused, brows furrowing. No one ever showed up unannounced.

Draco stepped toward the door, peering through the peephole.

Blaise.

He sighed.

"Hey, I’m sorry, mate," Draco started, already reaching for the best excuse he could muster. "I've got work in the morning, and I really—"

"Nope. Not going to work this time, Malfoy." Blaise’s voice was smooth but firm, carrying the weight of years of knowing exactly how to cut through Draco’s bullshit. "Let me in."

Draco hesitated, gripping the doorknob but not turning it. He didn’t want to deal with this tonight. Didn’t want to deal with whatever lecture was no doubt coming.

"Did you forget what tonight is?" Blaise asked, his tone taking on a sharper edge. "You really think Pansy is going to let you get away with not coming to our engagement dinner?"

Shit.

Draco closed his eyes briefly, pressing his forehead against the cool wood of the door. He had forgotten. Or, more accurately, he had let himself forget, shoving the invitation to the back of a drawer, hoping that ignoring it long enough would make it disappear.

But Pansy was nothing if not persistent, and Blaise? Well, Blaise had always been good at dragging him into things he had no interest in attending.

With a resigned exhale, Draco undid the locks and pulled the door open. Blaise stood on the threshold, impeccably dressed in a fitted dark green suit, his expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement.

"Go on, then," Blaise said, stepping inside without waiting for permission. "Tell me you’re busy." He gestured vaguely toward the eerily silent townhouse. "Tell me you have so many plans that you simply can’t make it."

Draco scowled. "I do have plans."

Blaise arched a single, knowing brow. "Uh-huh. And do any of these plans involve something other than avoiding all human contact?"

Draco didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

"Thought so," Blaise muttered. He clapped a hand on Draco’s shoulder, giving him a firm pat before steering him toward the stairs. "Come on, mate. Go get changed."

Draco scowled but knew there was no point in arguing. Pansy would kill him if he didn’t show, and Blaise? Blaise would just keep standing in his doorway until he gave in.

"Fine," he muttered, shaking off Blaise’s hand as he turned toward his room.

"Brilliant," Blaise said, smirking. "And do try to look like you're at least mildly pleased to be celebrating my impending nuptials, yeah? You are the best man, after all."

Draco shot him a glare over his shoulder before disappearing into his bedroom, already dreading the night ahead.

He unbuttoned his white work shirt with sharp, practiced movements, discarding it in favour of a crisp black dress shirt. As he reached for his cufflinks, he spoke, voice deliberately casual.

"About that," he said. "I really think you’d be better off asking one of the boys. Theo would bite your hand off."

Behind him, Blaise let out a dry laugh. "If I wanted Theo, I would have asked Theo," he said, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "You’re my best friend, so you’re my best man. That’s it."

Draco sighed, focusing on fastening his cuffs. "Blaise—"

"Draco," Blaise interrupted, his tone firm now. "It’s not up for discussion."

Draco stilled, his hands resting on the dresser. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror, the dim light casting sharp shadows across his face. Best man. Best man. The title sat uncomfortably on his shoulders, too heavy, too undeserved.

Blaise deserved someone better—someone who actually showed up. Someone who didn’t spend most of his time actively avoiding everyone who had ever given a damn about him.

"You know I’m not exactly—" He hesitated, searching for the right word. "Best man material," he finished dryly.

Blaise snorted. "Please, you’re Malfoy material. You’ll look good in the suit, give a half-decent speech, and pretend you aren’t plotting your escape the entire time. That’s all I need."

Draco huffed a quiet laugh despite himself, shaking his head. "Sentimental bastard."

"Only for you, mate." Blaise grinned, clapping a hand on Draco’s shoulder before stepping back. "Now, hurry up. We’re already late, and Pansy will have my head if we keep her waiting any longer."

Draco glanced at the clock, feeling the weight of inevitability settle over him. He wasn’t entirely sure how he had let himself get roped into this, but at this point, resistance was futile. Pansy was relentless, and Blaise was just as bad in his own, laid-back way. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed his jacket and followed Blaise toward the fireplace, mentally preparing himself for an evening of forced socialising, old school acquaintances, and—above all—Pansy’s unrelenting scrutiny.

They stepped into the green flames, and in an instant, Draco was tumbling out of the fireplace in Blaise and Pansy’s impeccably designed townhouse. The shift in atmosphere was immediate. Warm jazz music hummed through the air, the low, sultry kind meant to make a gathering feel effortlessly sophisticated. The scent of expertly prepared food—herb-roasted something or other—mixed with the expensive perfume and cologne of the unseen guests, a clear indication that tonight was meant to impress.

They had arrived in the library, a rich, dark room lined with bookshelves that were curated more for aesthetic than practicality. It was empty, but voices and laughter carried from the other rooms, the telltale sounds of mingling guests. Draco barely had a second to take in his surroundings before the door swung open with a flourish.

Pansy stood in the doorway, radiant and commanding in a white form-fitting dress that left no doubt she was the woman of the evening. Her dark hair was swept into an elegant updo, the sharp angles of her face softened only slightly by the smoky perfection of her eyeshadow. Her signature red lipstick—precisely applied—was a stark contrast to her pale complexion. She looked every bit the queen of high society she had always aspired to be.

“There you are,” she said, striding toward him with purpose. Before he could react, she pulled him into a quick but firm hug, her perfume enveloping him in a cloud of jasmine and something sharper, like amber. She pulled back just as swiftly, pinning him with a critical stare. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”

Draco opened his mouth to offer an excuse—one of the many he had rehearsed—but Pansy, as always, was quicker.

“What happened to your head?” she asked suddenly, her perfectly manicured fingers brushing against the plaster covering a cut near his hairline. The sting was immediate, a sharp, unexpected pain that made him flinch. 

“I—” he hesitated, scrambling for an explanation. “I don’t know. Work, I guess.”

Pansy’s expression darkened, her sharp eyes narrowing as she tilted his chin slightly to inspect the wound. “You guess?” she repeated, unimpressed. “Draco, this isn’t some paper cut. It looks like you got hit by something.”

“It’s nothing,” he dismissed, pulling back and smoothing his hair in an attempt to make the plaster less noticeable.

Pansy, however, looked anything but convinced. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she let it go—for now. Instead, she looped her arm through his and, with the kind of effortless authority that had always made her a force to be reckoned with, began steering him toward the noise of the party.

“Fine,” she said, though her tone made it clear she wasn’t actually letting it go. “I need you on your best behaviour, try to pretend you want to be here, will you? At least until the champagne is poured and we make our toast. And then later we need to talk to you.”

Draco exhaled through his nose, allowing himself to be led forward. The evening had barely begun, and already he was counting down the minutes until it was over.

The shift from the quiet library to the main room was jarring. The townhouse’s grand sitting room was filled with about 10 elegantly dressed guests, the low hum of conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter and the delicate clinking of glasses. The lighting was warm, golden, carefully curated to flatter everyone in attendance.

Draco barely had time to scan the room before Theodore Nott appeared at his side, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips.

"Look what the Niffler dragged in," Theo drawled, lifting his glass in greeting. His dark brown hair was slightly tousled, and he had the sort of easy grace that made him look like he had just rolled out of bed and still managed to be the best-dressed man in the room. "Thought you might actually manage to dodge this one, Malfoy. Pansy must've dragged you here by the collar."

"Something like that," Draco muttered, scanning the crowd. He recognised nearly everyone, though it had been a while since he’d willingly spent time with most of them.

Across the room, Marcus Flint was engaged in loud conversation with Gregory Goyle, the two of them standing like a pair of immovable mountains. Flint looked as brutish as ever, though wealth had refined his rough edges somewhat—his suit was well-tailored, his hair slicked back, but there was still something unmistakably Flint about him. Beside him, Gregory Goyle stood stiffly, less talkative than his old friend, but still laughing at whatever crude joke Marcus had just told.

Millicent Goyle, previously Bulstrode—Goyle’s wife of nearly two years now—was at his side, sipping a glass of wine and rolling her eyes at her husband's antics. She had never been a social butterfly, but she carried herself with the confidence of someone who had long since stopped caring what anyone thought of her.

Near the fireplace, Daphne Greengrass stood poised beside Marcus Flint, one perfectly manicured hand resting lightly on his arm—an effortless display of control, as if her mere presence could refine his rougher edges. She exuded the quiet confidence of someone who had long perfected the art of social maneuvering, her expression composed, her smile just warm enough to be inviting without seeming overly familiar.

She was engaged in conversation with two witches Draco immediately recognised—her younger sister, Astoria, and Pansy’s sister, Morgana. No doubt, she was charming them with ease, weaving carefully chosen words into something that sounded effortlessly sophisticated. Daphne had always known how to work a room, turning casual interactions into opportunities, turning acquaintances into admirers.

Her pale blonde hair was pinned into an intricate updo, not a single strand out of place, and the emerald-green cocktail dress she wore—elegant, tailored to perfection—was a quiet declaration of old money and impeccable taste. Everything about her, from the way she held her glass to the subtle tilt of her chin, spoke of a woman who knew precisely the image she wanted to project.

Draco sighed. He knew exactly how this night would go. Pansy would insist on making a grand toast, Blaise would charm the room with his effortless charisma, and at some point, someone—probably Theo—would take it upon themselves to pry into Draco’s personal life.

"Drink?" Theo asked, already signaling for a waiter before Draco could answer.

Draco took the glass of firewhisky without protest and knocked back half of it in one go.

"That bad already?" Theo mused, amusement flickering in his dark eyes.

Draco didn’t answer. Instead, he watched as Pansy, ever the perfect hostess, effortlessly commanded the room. She moved with practiced grace, as she stepped into the center of the gathering. With a sharp, deliberate clearing of her throat, the murmur of conversation around them began to fade, eyes turning toward her as if drawn by an invisible force.

She beamed, red lips curving into a knowing smile, relishing the moment. “Good evening, everyone,” she began, her voice smooth and confident. “Thank you all for being here tonight to celebrate our recent engagement.”

A few murmured cheers and the clinking of glasses followed, accompanied by Blaise’s smirk as he draped an arm lazily around her waist. Pansy barely acknowledged it, her attention fixed on the room as though she were conducting an orchestra, ensuring every note hit just right.

“We’re absolutely thrilled to have you all here,” she continued, sweeping her gaze over the gathered crowd. “It means the world to us to celebrate this new chapter with the people who have been by our sides for so many years.”

Her words were polished, rehearsed, but there was a genuine warmth beneath them—Pansy might have been sharp-tongued and calculating, but she cared about the people in this room in her own way.

“If you could all make your way through to the dining room,” she said, gesturing gracefully toward the open double doors leading into the next space, “dinner is about to be served.”

There was a ripple of movement as guests began to filter into the adjoining room, laughter and conversation picking up again. Draco, however, lingered a moment longer, watching as Pansy turned to exchange a triumphant glance with Blaise. She had orchestrated this evening to perfection, and she knew it.

With a quiet sigh, he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves and followed the crowd inside, bracing himself for a long night of forced pleasantries and the ghosts of a past he had long tried to outrun.

The dining room was lavish, of course—Pansy would settle for nothing less. A grand chandelier cast warm golden light over the long mahogany table, where gleaming silverware and crystal glasses were arranged with meticulous precision. The floral centerpiece, a dramatic arrangement of deep red roses and enchanted floating candles, added an air of effortless sophistication. House-elves in crisp uniforms flitted between guests, refilling goblets with expensive wine and setting down the first course—some kind of delicate soup that smelled rich and earthy.

Draco took a seat near the middle of the table, next to Theo, who was already reaching for the bread basket. On the opposite side sat Daphne and Marcus, with Millicent beside her husband, Goyle. Further down, Pansy and Blaise sat together, naturally, with Pansy’s sister Morgana and Astoria Greengrass chatting beside them.

Draco hoped to keep his head down, eat his meal, and get through the night with minimal conversation. But, of course, that was wishful thinking.

“So, Malfoy,” Marcus Flint’s deep, gravelly voice cut through the hum of chatter. “What the hell have you been up to? You’ve been a bloody ghost since we left school.”

Draco exhaled slowly, setting down his spoon before meeting Marcus’s curious gaze. “Work, mostly,” he answered vaguely.

Theo let out a low snort, swirling the wine in his glass. “That’s an understatement. He works more than anyone I know.”

Astoria arched a perfectly shaped brow, her lips curving in quiet amusement as she took a slow sip of her wine. “Yes, I heard you’re at the Ministry.”

Draco’s grip tightened slightly on his spoon, but before he could answer, Pansy—ever eager to be the one to reveal something dramatic—spoke up. “Draco is in the Department of Mysteries.”

A beat of silence followed before Astoria's eyes flickered with interest. “Oh,” she said, her tone shifting into something almost intrigued. “So you’re severed?”

Across the table, Millicent let out a low hum of surprise. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”

Draco didn’t respond, but Blaise shot Pansy a sharp look. “And I also think it’s something that’s Draco’s choice to share or not, Pansy.”

Pansy huffed, rolling her eyes as if they were all being terribly unreasonable. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, it’s all so unnecessarily dramatic, isn’t it? Mysterious job, mysterious hours, barely making an appearance in our lives—what are we supposed to think, Draco?”

“Probably that I’m busy, Pans,” he replied dryly.

“Too busy to have a life?” Theo chimed in, leaning back in his chair. “I mean, honestly, do you even do anything outside of work? When’s the last time you went on holiday? Or even just—” He gestured vaguely with his fork. “Had fun?”

Draco smirked, though there was little humour behind it. “I have fun.”

“Name one fun thing you’ve done recently,” Pansy challenged.

A silence stretched between them for a beat too long.

Marcus barked a laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

Draco rolled his eyes and picked up his spoon again, focusing on his meal. He didn’t owe them an explanation—not about his job, not about his choices. But that didn’t stop the growing discomfort curling in his chest.

The problem was, they weren’t wrong.

“I think it’s fascinating,” Millicent said, leaning forward slightly, her dark eyes alight with curiosity.

“Yeah,” Goyle added beside her, nodding. “I wish I could do it.”

Astoria, who had been quietly twirling the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, frowned. “I’d just always be thinking about the other one.”

“There isn’t another one,” Draco said, his voice sharper than he intended. “It’s me. I do the work. I just don’t remember it.”

“Well, yes, but you know what I mean,” Astoria insisted, shooting him a look. She glanced at her sister. “Daphne is actually—”

Daphne swiftly cut her off before she could finish. “I think it’s hard for anyone who isn’t severed to understand,” she said smoothly, brushing invisible lint off her sleeve. “You know, what it actually feels like.”

“Well, it’s simple, isn’t it?” Marcus interjected, setting his fork down with an air of finality. “You go in at 9 AM, blink, and then it’s 5 PM and you’re walking out. Hardly something to lose sleep over.”

Draco hesitated. “I mean, they stagger us, so I actually start at—”

“They stagger you?” Goyle asked, brow furrowing.

“So we don’t run into each other on the outside,” Draco explained, reaching for his glass.

“I just can’t grasp the visceral element of it. That version of you—the other you—is trapped in there,” Astoria said hesitantly, watching him carefully.

A strange silence settled over the table.

“Please excuse me,” Daphne said abruptly, standing up so quickly her chair scraped against the floor. “I feel sick.”

No one moved as she left the room, save for a flickering glance between Astoria and Pansy. Marcus, her boyfriend, didn’t even turn his head.

Draco’s grip tightened around his goblet. “Trapped?” he repeated.

Astoria shifted in her seat. “Well, not trapped, but…”

“But what?” Draco pressed.

“Draco,” Blaise warned, his voice low.

“No, no. I’m curious,” Draco said, setting his glass down with a deliberate clink. “Not trapped, but what?”

Marcus let out a quiet chuckle, leaning back in his chair. “Well, we can see where you stand on the moral question of it all.”

“I think you’re missing the point,” Pansy interjected sharply, her voice cutting through the awkwardness of the moment. Her expression was tight, her lips set in that familiar, no-nonsense line that Draco knew so well. “Draco made a choice. One we may not all understand, but we don’t need to understand it. Now, can we please move on?”

Her gaze swept the room, ensuring no one dared to argue further. The tension that had been mounting evaporated, but only for a moment, as Pansy turned to Marcus with an expectant look. “Marcus, do you want to go check on Daphne?”

Marcus blinked in confusion, clearly caught off guard by the request. “Why me?” he asked, the confusion clear in his voice.

“You’re her boyfriend,” Pansy pointed out, her tone flat. “You’re supposed to be concerned.”

After a beat of hesitation, Marcus sighed in resignation and stood, muttering under his breath as he made his way toward the door. Pansy didn’t wait for a reply, seamlessly steering the conversation in a different direction with a practiced ease.

“Right,” she said, clapping her hands together and turning her attention back to the rest of the table. “As I was saying, Blaise and I are envisioning the wedding to be really chic—simple, but elegant. So, we were thinking... I wear white, of course, and Blaise in white as well, and everyone else in black. It’ll look fantastic. Thoughts?”

Draco could tell from the look in her eyes that this wasn’t a conversation she was asking for input on. Pansy had already decided on the entire aesthetic, and the only response expected was praise. He let the words wash over him, his mind drifting back to the earlier conversation and the questions he wasn’t sure he was ready to answer yet.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of forced laughter, polite nods, and the clink of silverware as Pansy’s plans for the wedding took center stage. The conversation flowed, though it never really hit the depth Draco had come to expect from his old school friends. He was fine with it, honestly—he preferred the shallowness, the small talk. Anything that kept him from diving too deep into uncomfortable territory.

Hours passed, and one by one, the guests filtered out, their laughter and chatter fading into the night. It was just him now, sitting at the table, nursing the last of the wine and half-listening to the lingering sounds of footsteps and the closing of doors.

Blaise appeared in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame with a crooked smile playing on his lips. "If I offer you a hundred knuts, will you forgive me?" he asked, his voice light, though the glint in his eyes suggested the conversation was about to take a more serious turn.

Draco arched an eyebrow, taking a moment before responding, his voice deadpan. "Only because I fear for my life if I ruin Pansy's big day, I’ll hold off on murdering you—at least until after the wedding."

Blaise’s grin widened as he walked over, handing Draco a beer with a mock-seriousness. “She’d probably love to be a widow,” he teased, clearly trying to shift the mood back to something lighter. “Honestly, Draco, you're like a bloody ghost these days. Work, work, work... Pansy’s engagement dinner was the closest thing to a night out you’ve had in months.”

Draco took the beer with a quiet sigh, not bothering to deny it. His gaze drifted toward the half-empty glass of wine sitting on the table, the remnants of a night he had barely participated in. “I don’t need nights out. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Blaise countered, his voice dropping to something more serious. “Look, mate, I get it. Things have been... different since the war, since everything with your family, with the Ministry. But isolating yourself like this? It’s not healthy. We’ve all noticed, Draco. Even I have noticed.”

Draco looked at Blaise, but said nothing for a moment, his fingers tapping against the cool bottle. He didn’t want to get into this now. “I’m fine,” he repeated, this time more firmly.

Blaise exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not. And you’re not fooling anyone.” He leaned against the back of the chair, his gaze thoughtful. “You’ve been stuck in your own head for too long. It’s like... it’s like you’re just going through the motions. Work, home, work, home, and that’s it.”

Draco met his eyes, his jaw tightening. “And what’s your point?”

“The point is,” Blaise said, his voice steady but carrying a weight of frustration beneath it, “you’re not living, Draco. You’re just existing. And that’s not what you’re meant for. You’re better than that.” He paused, “Are you staying tonight?”

“Nah,” Draco replied dismissively, taking a long swig from the beer bottle, the bitter liquid doing little to dull the dull ache inside of him. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still distant.

Blaise raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Why not?”

Draco chuckled bitterly, the sound empty. “Your house smells of happiness,” he said, his voice laced with a sarcasm he didn’t entirely feel but used anyway.

Blaise stared at him for a moment, blinking as though trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind Draco's words. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, tilting his head. “I just don’t think I’m grasping the visceral element of what you’re saying to me.”

Draco shot him a sidelong glance, his lips curling into a wry smile. “Oh god, she was fun,” he muttered. “Why’d you invite her?”

Blaise groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re not letting that go, are you?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “She was literally the least entertaining person at the table,” he said, his tone teasing but with a hint of genuine exasperation. “You know, if I had to pick someone to bring back to life from our school days, I think I’d pick a Weasley over her.”

“Then I’ll make sure she’s not invited to the wedding,” Blaise said dryly, but the smile tugging at his lips was a good-natured one. He clearly wasn’t offended.

Draco shook his head, trying to brush off the conversation. “I can’t stay, Blaise. I’ve got work in the morning. I didn’t exactly pack an overnight bag.”

Blaise’s face lit up with an idea, his grin returning. “Just floo back in the morning. I’ll set up the spare room. Trust me, one more night here won’t kill you. Besides, I think Pansy would appreciate it if you stayed, and, frankly, so would I.”

Draco hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he considered it. It wasn’t the work in the morning that bothered him, it was the idea of spending one more minute wrapped up in a world where people actually lived. He had mastered the art of simply existing, of floating in the background, keeping his distance from everything and everyone.

But the look in Blaise’s eyes, the way he was trying so hard to pull Draco out of his head, made the corner of his mouth twitch upward, just a fraction. It was hard to deny that some part of him wanted to stay, even if only for a night. Even if only for the sake of not being alone with his thoughts.

With a sigh, Draco relented. “Fine. One night. But no more dinners, alright?”

Blaise let out a victorious laugh. “Deal.” He slapped Draco on the back, knocking him off balance, before heading off to prepare the guest room.

Draco stood there for a moment longer, the silence of the room pressing in on him. He had no idea how long he could keep pretending that everything was fine, but for tonight at least, he didn’t have to. He could sleep in someone else’s house, pretend to be part of a world he’d long since shut himself off from, if only for a few hours.

But the morning would come. And then he’d slip back into the monotony of his life, where no one asked too many questions, and he didn’t have to confront the parts of himself he wasn’t ready to face.

For now, though, the weight of his own isolation could wait. Tonight, he would exist among others. Tomorrow, he’d be alone again.