Monday morning hit different after a kiss like that.
Talia floated into her 8 a.m. clinical skills class with something dangerously close to a smile. Not her usual cocky, half-smirk kind—but the kind that sat quietly on her lips, like a secret only she knew. The kind you got when someone touched your hand and meant it.
Ezra hadn't texted her good morning, but she didn't mind. They'd said enough with their mouths the night before. They'd said even more with their silences.
She took her seat in the second row, scanned the room, and waited.
And waited.
And… waited.
No Ezra.
Her heart shrugged it off. Maybe he overslept. Maybe his bus was late. Maybe he needed a second coffee before he could function. It was fine.
Until it wasn't.
Because he didn't show up to class.
Didn't text.
Didn't answer hers.
At first, Talia told herself not to spiral. People were allowed to disappear for a day. Maybe he'd lost his phone. Maybe something came up. But as the hours ticked by and her messages turned into unread blue bubbles, the smile faded from her lips.
By 5 p.m., she was pacing her apartment, arms crossed, stomach knotted.
By 7 p.m., she'd deleted and rewritten a text five times:
hey. u good?
you ghosting again?
what's going on, ezra?
She didn't send any of them.
Instead, she grabbed her keys, threw on a hoodie, and marched straight across campus. The student directory had once been good for stalking study groups. Now, it was her shortcut to Ezra's dorm address.
She stood outside his building, buzzing the front desk. Her voice was sharp when she said, "Looking for Ezra Lane. Room 314."
The student worker looked up. "Oh. He left this morning. Packed a bag and everything. Said something about home."
Home.
The word echoed in her skull.
Home, where his dad had been in the hospital. Home, where Talia wasn't invited. Home, where he disappeared once before.
Her heart dropped like a failed test result.
She wasn't angry.
She was something worse—confused.
Because they had something now, right? They kissed. They talked. They started over.
So why did it feel like he'd slammed the door shut all over again?
The next day came and went. No texts. No Ezra.
By Wednesday, her moods were whiplash.
One minute, she was ready to burn his hoodie. The next, she was checking her phone like it might apologize on his behalf.
By Thursday, she didn't recognize herself. She skipped their usual study session. Ignored his silence with one of her own. And still, it hurt.
It hurt because she'd let him in. Really in. Past the sarcasm, past the walls. Past the part of her that said people always left.
And now here she was—looking like a fool, again.
Friday night, she did the one thing she swore she wouldn't.
She went to a party.
It was loud, stupid, and everything she used to enjoy. But this time, it felt hollow. The lights too bright, the laughter too forced, the drinks too bitter. Someone handed her a solo cup, and she drank without thinking. Then another. And another.
She danced because her body needed to move. Because her brain wouldn't stop looping Ezra's face. Because forgetting him felt easier than remembering what it felt like to have him near.
And somewhere around 1 a.m., she made a mistake.
A drunken, terrible, unfixable mistake.
One that she barely remembered the next morning, just flashes—a guy with a backwards hat, too many tequila shots, hands on her waist that didn't feel right. She didn't even know his name.
When she woke up in her bed with a splitting headache and the weight of regret pressing against her chest, her first thought was Ezra.
Her second was what the hell did I just do?
Monday rolled around like punishment.
Ezra was back in class. He slid into the seat beside her like nothing had happened.
"Talia," he said, almost softly, as if he wasn't sure she'd even answer.
She didn't look at him. She couldn't. She felt sick.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice cracking. "My dad… he had a setback. I left fast. I couldn't—"
She turned to face him then, eyes colder than they'd ever been. "You left. Again. No warning, no message. You disappeared."
"I didn't mean to hurt you."
"But you did."
He looked like he wanted to explain, to fix it, to rewind time.
But Talia was already standing, grabbing her bag.
"You don't get to come back like it didn't mean something," she said, not loud, but sharp enough to cut.
"Talia—wait."
But she didn't.
Because there was one thing she'd learned from being burned:
Sometimes, leaving first hurts less than being left.
That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the silence loud enough to drown in. The room spun a little, not from alcohol this time, but from guilt. Shame. Sadness.
She'd finally let someone in.
And maybe that was the real mistake.
Not the party. Not the kiss.
But believing that love—like medicine—could be like a textbook.
Predictable.
Safe.
Because love wasn't sterile. It was messy. Complicated. And in the case of Ezra Lane and Talia Quinn…
It was broken. Again.