He can still smell him on the bedsheets, no matter how many times they’ve been washed. Still taste him when he catches his breath in the shower. Still see him out of the corner of his eye on the sidewalk. And he thinks he might be going crazy every time he catches himself staring in the mirror for a second too long, and his apartment’s too dark and too cold and he’s suddenly not comfortable in his own skin. Scratching, clawing, begging to get free. And his friends ask if he’s sleeping alright, if he’s trying some new fitness regime, and he rubs his eyes and nods and it’s like he’s running on autopilot.
There are only two places Nolan’s ever really felt he belongs- and now he knows how fucking stupid that little fantasy was.