The Wreckage of his Own Making
The chair was too small, or maybe Luke had gotten too big. His body swollen with a toxic cocktail of shame and rage. He sat rigidly in the visitor’s chair opposite Coach Thorne’s imposing oak desk, the hard plastic digging into his thighs. He felt like a child in the principal's office, a feeling he hadn’t experienced in over a decade.
Coach Thorne was silent. He sat behind his desk and stared at Luke. He didn't yell. He didn't glower. He just… looked, his weathered face a mask of profound, weary disapproval.
Finally, after a silence that stretched for an eternity, Thorne leaned forward, his big hands clasping together on a stack of playbooks.
“The gossip mill at this university...” he began, his voice a low, gravelly rumble “moves faster than a goddamn rumor in an NFL locker room. I had three calls before you were even out of the gym parking lot. One from the Dean of Student Affairs, one from the head of the athletic department, and one from Brian’s father, who, as it turns out, is a very influential alumnus.”
Luke flinched, his eyes dropping to his own massive, useless hands, which were clenched into fists on his knees. “Sir, I…”
“Don’t.” Thorne cut him off, his voice sharp. “Don’t you dare make an excuse. I saw the security footage, Luke. I saw you walk across that room and sucker punch a kid half your size for looking in your direction.” He sighed, a heavy, tired sound that seemed to carry the weight of every stupid mistake every player had ever made under his watch. “You’re on athletic probation, effective immediately. One more incident and you’re off the team for the rest of the semester. Your scholarship will be under review. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir…” Luke mumbled to the floor. The words were a death sentence. Football was everything. It was his identity, his future. The thought of losing it sent a wave of cold, nauseating panic through him.
“Good.” Thorne said, but he didn’t sound pleased. He leaned back, the leather of his chair groaning. “Now, that’s the official business. Let’s talk about the real problem.” He paused, his sharp eyes pinning Luke in place. “What the hell is going on with you?”
Luke’s head snapped up, his mouth opening to offer a pre-packaged lie. I was defending my girlfriend’s honor. He was disrespecting her. But the words died in his throat. He couldn’t say them. Not to this man. And besides, he knew it wasn't true.
“This isn’t you, son.” Thorne continued, his voice softening slightly, which was somehow worse. The anger he could handle. The disappointment was a knife in his gut. “You’re my captain. You’re the leader of that team. You’re supposed to be the one who breaks up fights, not the one who starts them over nothing. You looked like a child throwing a tantrum.”
The word child landed like a punch. It was exactly how he felt—powerless, confused, his emotions too big and too ugly for him to control.
“Your head’s not in the game.” Thorne said, his gaze unwavering. “Hasn’t been since the semester started. You’re distracted. You’re volatile. And now you’re getting violent. You’re a goddamn time bomb, and I need to know why before you blow up my entire season.” He leaned forward again, his voice dropping to an intense, confidential whisper. “What’s really going on with you, Luke? Is it Pamela? Is it your classes? Is it something at home?”
Luke stared back at his coach, his mind a roaring, white-hot blank. The real answer was a black hole in the center of his chest, a truth so terrifying he couldn't even look at it, let alone speak its name. The real answer was Paul. It was the memory of Paul’s mouth on his cock, the feeling of being buried deep inside his tight, hot body, the look in his blue eyes, the sound of his name being screamed in pleasure. It was the sight of him laughing with another man, a man who could offer him a world Luke didn’t understand.
How could he ever explain that?
“I don’t know, sir...” he finally choked out, the words tasting like ash. It was the most honest and the most pathetic thing he had ever said.
Thorne stared at him for a long moment, his eyes searching Luke’s face. He saw the turmoil, the shame, the deep, resonant confusion. He knew he wasn't going to get the truth.
“Get your shit together, son.” he said, his voice flat, all traces of warmth gone. “Whatever it is, you fix it. And you fix it now. Get out of my office.”
Luke stood on shaky legs, the shame a hot, suffocating cloak around his shoulders. He walked out of the office, out of the athletic building, and back into the bright, indifferent sunshine of the campus. He felt like a ghost, a fraud. Every friendly nod from a passing student, every "Hey, Luke." felt like an accusation.
He walked the long path back to his dorm, each step heavier than the last. He was a disgraced king returning to a ruined castle. When he finally reached the door to Room 3B, he hesitated, his hand hovering over the knob. He didn’t want to go in. He didn’t want to face the quiet judgment he knew would be waiting for him. But there was nowhere else to go.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was quiet. And there, on the other side of the room, was Paul.
Luke felt like he was radiating a dark, toxic energy, a cloud of humiliation and rage clinging to him like a shroud. But Paul… Paul was a pocket of light and quiet excitement. He wasn't stewing or angry. He was getting ready to go out. He was pulling a clean, soft-looking sweater over his head, the fabric outlining the lean, athletic muscles of his back. There was a hopeful, almost happy buzz of energy around him, an anticipation for an evening that had absolutely nothing to do with Luke.
Paul ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame the unruly curls, a nervous, hopeful energy buzzing just beneath his skin. He was acutely aware of Luke’s presence behind him, a dark, silent storm cloud radiating waves of pure, volatile misery. The air in the room was a tense, vibrating wire stretched between their two opposing poles: Paul’s quiet anticipation and Luke’s suffocating shame.
“Where are you going?” Luke’s voice was a low growl from his side of the room.
Paul turned from his dresser to face him. Luke was sitting on the edge of his bed, his massive frame slumped, his face a thunderous mask of frustration. He looked like a caged animal.
“Library.” Paul lied, the word tasting thin and unconvincing on his tongue. He bent down to tie his shoes, avoiding Luke’s intense, burning gaze. “Gotta meet a study group.”
“Bullshit!” Luke spat, standing up. He stalked across the room, closing the distance between them until he was standing right in front of Paul, blocking his path to the door. He smelled faintly of sweat and the sharp, metallic scent of rage. “You’re going to see him, aren’t you? The chess nerdy.”
Paul straightened up slowly, refusing to be intimidated. “His name is Maddison. And yeah, I am.”
The confirmation hit Luke like a physical blow. Paul saw a flicker of raw, wounded hurt in his eyes before it was swallowed by anger. “So that’s it?” Luke said, his voice dangerously low. “I have the worst fucking day of my life, get my ass chewed out by Coach, and you’re just gonna walk out and leave me here to go hang out with a guy you don't even know?”
“What do you want from me, Luke?” Paul shot back, his own frustration boiling over. “You want me to stay here and watch you punch holes in the wall? You made your mess, you get to sit in it. I’ve got my own life.”
“You are my life too!” Luke roared, the words exploding out of him, raw and unfiltered. He grabbed Paul’s arms, his grip bruisingly tight. “Don’t you get it? There is no ‘my life’ without you in it.”
Before Paul could even process, Luke’s mouth was on his. It was a desperate, frantic kiss, a torrent of possession, and raw, aching need. For a split second, Paul was lost in it. He kissed back with the same fire, his hands coming up to fist in the front of Luke’s t-shirt, his body instinctively arching into the familiar, powerful frame of his best friend.
Then he tasted it. Faint, but sharp. The distinct, sour tang of beer on Luke’s breath.
And he felt Luke’s hands weren't just holding him: they were pulling at his clothes, his thumbs hooking into the waistband of Paul’s jeans, trying to drag them down. His hips were already grinding against Paul’s, a frantic, mindless rhythm.
The realization hit Paul like a splash of ice water. Luke didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want comfort. He wanted a fuck. He wanted an escape, a physical release to numb the shame and the anger. He wanted to lose himself inside Paul, not be with him.
Paul tore his mouth away, planting his hands firmly on Luke’s chest and pushing him back. “No!” he said, his voice firm, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Luke stared at him, his eyes wide and confused, his face flushed with arousal and alcohol. “What do you mean, no?”
“I’m not going to be your punching bag, Luke!” Paul said, his voice shaking slightly but his resolve solid. “Not literally, and not like this. I’m not just a hole you can fuck your problems into whenever you feel like it.”
The words were cruel, but they were true. He saw them land, saw the flicker of understanding and a fresh wave of shame cross Luke’s face.
Paul stepped around him, grabbing his keys and his phone from his desk. He walked to the door, his heart a painful, hammering drum in his chest. He paused with his hand on the doorknob, his back to Luke.
“You have a fucking girlfriend, Luke... why don't you go find her?” he said quietly, the words a final, definitive statement. “I’ll probably be late… don’t wait up.”
He walked out, closing the door softly behind him, leaving Luke alone in the wreckage of his own making.
The anger was a live coal in Paul’s chest as he walked across campus.
Each step he took away from the dorm felt like a step toward breathable air, a desperate escape from a room that had become a pressure cooker of shame and unspoken want.
When he found Maddison’s apartment building, a modest brick structure a few blocks from campus, he almost turned back. He felt raw, exposed, and in no shape for social interaction. But the thought of returning to the suffocating silence of Room 3B was worse. He took a breath and pressed the buzzer.
The door was opened not by Maddison, but by a young woman with a cascade of dark, intricate braids and a sharp, intelligent gaze. She gave him a quick, appraising look. “You must be Paul.” she said, her voice laced with a friendly, sarcastic drawl. “Mads has been uncharacteristically nervous all day. I’m not gonna lie... I was expecting a seven-foot-tall Viking. You’re much less intimidating.” She stepped aside. “I’m Aisha. Come on in, the nerd herd is assembled.”
Paul stepped inside, and the difference from his own living space was immediate and profound. The air smelled of brewing coffee and old paperbacks. The small living room was dominated by orderly bookshelves, every volume arranged with a librarian’s precision. A complex, half-finished board game with dozens of intricate pieces was laid out on the coffee table.
“Don’t mind her.” came Maddison’s voice from the small kitchen. He emerged, wiping his hands on a towel, a warm, welcoming smile on his face. He was wearing a simple grey t-shirt that hinted at the powerful physique underneath, and seeing him, so calm and centered, was like a balm on Paul’s frayed nerves. “Aisha thinks social grace is a sign of weakness.”
“It’s inefficient.” she shot back without missing a beat. A third person, a guy with kind eyes and a shy smile, looked up from the couch. “This is Ben.” Maddison said. “Ben, Paul.”
“Hey.” Ben said softly. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water? Wine?”
Paul was momentarily stunned. The welcome was so immediate, so uncomplicated. There was no posturing, no sizing up. He wasn’t being judged as a jock or a rival. He was just a person, invited into their space.
“Water would be great, thanks.” he managed to say.
For the next hour, they actually studied. Paul had expected a loose, distracted session, but Maddison’s friends were as sharp and focused as he was. They sat around the dining table, their textbooks and laptops open, and dove into Machiavelli. The conversation was fast, brilliant, and exhilarating. Aisha, a computer science major, approached the text like a piece of code, looking for logical fallacies. Ben, a history buff, provided rich, historical context for every chapter. And Maddison was the conductor, effortlessly weaving their different perspectives together.
Paul, instead of feeling intimidated, felt energized. He found himself jumping in, offering his own interpretations, seeing the text not as a political treatise but as a grand chess match, a series of strategic gambits and sacrifices.
“That’s it.” Maddison said, his eyes lighting up after Paul made a point. “That’s exactly it. It’s not about morality, it’s about positioning. He’s sacrificing a pawn to gain control of the center.”
Aisha looked at Paul with a newfound respect. “Okay, I get it now. You’re not just a pretty face.”
Paul felt a laugh, loud and uninhibited, burst from his chest. It felt incredible. He realized with a jolt that he wasn't performing. He was just a participant, a peer.
Eventually, the academic intensity gave way to hunger. “I can’t read another word about Renaissance Italy until I’ve had a slice of pepperoni!” Ben declared.
So pizza was ordered.
While they waited, the conversation shifted seamlessly from political theory to a passionate, wonderfully nerdy debate about the narrative structure of the original Blade Runner. Paul found himself arguing fiercely about the ambiguous ending, citing specific camera angles and lines of dialogue.
After the pizza, the board game on the coffee table was resurrected. It was a complex, strategic game of resource management and galactic conquest that made chess look like checkers. Paul, a natural strategist, picked it up quickly. The next two hours flew by in a blur of friendly competition, tactical alliances, and good-natured trash talk.
He was in the middle of a triumphant move, capturing one of Aisha’s planets, when he glanced at the clock on the wall. It was almost two in the morning. He had been here for over five hours. It had felt like sixty minutes.
He looked around the room at the new faces, at the empty pizza boxes and the scattered game pieces. He looked at Maddison, who was smiling, completely at ease. A profound sense of peace washed over Paul. Here, in this circle of quiet light and shared enthusiasm, he was just Paul. And it felt like taking a full, clean breath for the first time in a very long time.
The cool night air was a refreshing shock after the warm, lived-in comfort of Maddison’s apartment. A damp, late-summer chill had settled over the campus, and a low-lying mist clung to the manicured lawns, muffling the sounds of the sleeping university. The world felt quiet, private, and intimate.
“Ben lives in the grad student housing on the other side of campus.” Maddison explained as they walked, their footsteps echoing softly on the pavement. “It’s on the way. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” Paul said, tucking his hands into his jacket pockets. The easy energy from the apartment had followed them out into the night, but it had transformed into something quieter, more personal. The group dynamic had dissolved, leaving just the two of them.
After dropping off a sleepy, grateful Ben at his dorm, they turned back toward the main campus, their path now taking them through the deserted quad. The silence between them was comfortable, companionable.
“Your friends are cool.” Paul said, breaking the quiet.
“They are...” Maddison agreed. “Aisha pretends she’s a cynical robot, but she’d take a bullet for you. And Ben… well, Ben is basically a golden retriever in human form.” He glanced at Paul, a small, shy smile on his face. “and they liked you... A lot!”
“Felt mutual.” Paul admitted. “It’s been a while since I’ve been able to just… talk. About books and movies and stuff.”
“I get that...” Maddison said. “Sometimes it feels like you’re speaking a different language than everyone else.” He paused, his gaze thoughtful. “My family is like that. ‘They’re all sports and business.’” He said in a voice that was thicker and muffled by the cold night air, which seemed like a clear, exaggerated imitation of his father. “I was the weird one who always had his nose in a book.”
“Yeah?” Paul asked, intrigued. “My parents are the opposite. Both literature professors. I was the weird one who wanted to go outside and kick a ball around.”
Maddison chuckled, a soft, warm sound in the cool air. “Guess we’re a matched set.” He looked down at the sidewalk, his expression turning more serious. “It was harder for them when I came out tho. The books… they could handle. But a gay son was… a bigger adjustment.”
The confession was so casual, so matter-of-fact, it took Paul by surprise. “When was that?”
“Early.” Maddison said with a shrug. “I was fourteen but knew since I was about ten. I’m a planner. I figured it was better to just get it over with.” He looked at Paul, his eyes clear and direct in the dim light from the campus streetlamps. “It was rough for a few years. A lot of silence at the dinner table. But it made me… me. I learned how to be okay on my own, you know? It made me stronger.”
Paul was struck by his quiet strength, his complete lack of apology for who he was. It was a stark, painful contrast to the storm of confusion and denial raging inside Luke. “My family was always supportive.” Paul confessed, the words feeling like a boast in the face of Maddison’s struggle. “They told me from the time I was a kid: ‘Whoever you love is fine with us, just make sure they can hold a decent conversation.’”
Maddison laughed, a genuine, bright sound. “Damn. Is there a vacancy in your family? Because I would like to fill out an application.”
The joke was light, but the sentiment underneath it was warm and real. The damp, misty air suddenly felt heavy with a kind of melancholy beauty. Paul looked at Maddison, at his kind eyes and his easy, self-assured smile, and Luke’s angry, desperate words from earlier echoed in his head. ‘You’re just gonna walk out and leave me here to go hang out with some new guy?’ Maybe Luke was right. Maybe Maddison was someone he could really want. Someone who would understand him, someone whose world wasn’t a battlefield. The thought was both a profound comfort and a deep, unsettling betrayal.
They reached the front steps of Paul’s dorm, the familiar brick building looming over them and marking the end of the night.
“Well, this is me.” Paul said. “Thanks for walking me back. And I’d invite you up...” Paul found himself saying, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. “But it’s late, and… my roommate situation is a little complicated right now.”
Maddison’s smile was gentle, understanding. “I heard about the fight at the gym. Sounds like he’s going through some stuff.” He paused, his gaze searching Paul’s. “And I get the feeling he doesn’t like me very much.”
“No, that’s not it.” Paul denied, the lie tasting like ash. “He’s just… he’s got a lot of pressure on him right now.”
But they both knew it was true. And in that shared, unspoken knowledge, the space between them crackled with a new kind of tension. It was personal. It was physical.
The impulse was a sudden, undeniable surge. Paul didn’t think. He just acted. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Maddison’s. It was a quick, clumsy, almost chaste kiss. A thank you. An apology. A question?. He pulled back immediately, a hot flush of regret and panic washing over him. “Shit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”
He was cut off. Maddison’s hand came up, his fingers warm and firm on the back of Paul’s neck. He gently but inexorably pulled him back in. “I thought you’d never read my signals.” he whispered, his lips just a breath from Paul’s.
And then he kissed him.
This kiss was nothing like the first. It was slow, deep, and utterly confident. Maddison’s mouth was soft but sure, his lips moving against Paul’s with a practiced, patient heat. He wasn't demanding or desperate like Luke. He was exploring, tasting, inviting. Paul’s mind went quiet. The roaring chaos of his life faded away, and there was only this. The cool night air, the solid feel of Maddison’s hand on his neck, and the warm, steady pressure of his mouth.
When the kiss finally broke, they were both breathing a little faster.
“Wow.” Paul breathed out.
“Yeah...” Maddison agreed, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind Paul’s ear. He didn’t look smug or triumphant. He just looked pleased. “I should probably let you go.”
“Okay...” Paul said, his voice a little shaky. “I guess.”
But neither of them moved for a long moment.
Finally, Maddison let his hand drop, a final, lingering caress. “Goodnight, Paul.”
“Goodnight, Maddison.”
Paul watched him walk away into the mist, his quiet figure disappearing into the night. He brought his fingers up to his lips, which were still tingling from the kiss. He felt dazed, confused, and more seen than he had in a very long time. He turned and walked into the dorm, the door closing behind him, leaving one world behind as he prepared to face the storm waiting in the other.
A FEW HOURS EARLIER...
The click of the door closing behind Paul was the loudest sound Luke had ever heard.
It was a sound of abandonment. He stood alone in the center of the room, the space where Paul had just been a cold, empty void. The faint, clean scent of Paul’s cologne hung in the air, a ghostly accusation.
He was drowning. The shame from his meeting with Coach Thorne, the raw rejection from Paul—it was all a swirling, black water pulling him under. He needed an anchor. He needed something solid, something real and normal and straight to hold onto before he was completely swept away.
He need Pamela.
He grabbed his keys and stormed out of the dorm, his long strides eating up the campus walkways. He found her, ten minutes later, in the library, ironically, sitting in a brightly lit study area, looking small and focused behind a stack of books. She looked up as he approached, her expression a mixture of surprise and wary caution.
“Luke?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”
“I needed to see you.” he said, his voice low and urgent. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite her, leaning forward, his forearms on the table. “I’m sorry. About the gym. I was a complete fucking asshole. There’s no excuse.”
His apology was a blunt instrument, delivered with the force of a tackle. Pamela’s cautious expression softened slightly, but she didn’t let him off the hook. “I know you’re sorry, Luke. But I don’t understand why. You looked… you looked crazy. It wasn’t you.”
“I just… lost my head.” he said, the lie feeling flimsy and pathetic. He couldn’t tell her the truth. He couldn’t say, ‘I was picturing another man’s face on that guy because I’m terrified of what I feel for my best friend.’
“That’s not good enough.” she said, her voice firm but not unkind. She reached across the table, her hand covering his. Her touch was warm, familiar, and felt strangely foreign. “You’re pulling away from me. You have been for months. If we’re going to survive this, you have to talk to me. We have to fix things.”
That was the phrase. Fix things. It was a switch, a trigger. It was a command he could understand, a problem he could solve with his body, the only part of him that felt honest anymore. The shame and confusion in his gut coalesced into a single, driving, desperate need.
He stood up, pulling her hand and gently tugging her to her feet. “You’re right.” he said, his voice a low, intense rumble. “Let’s go fix things. Right now.”
He led her out of the library, his hand gripping hers, and back to her dorm, which was blessedly empty. The moment the door clicked shut behind them, his mouth was on hers. It was a kiss of pure, desperate force, a claiming. He backed her against the door, his body caging hers, his hips already grinding against her.
For a moment, she was stiff with surprise, but then she melted into him, her arms wrapping around his neck. This was the passion she’d been missing, the raw, physical connection she craved.
But it was a lie.
Luke’s eyes were closed and he was seeing Paul. He was replaying the kiss from earlier, but this time, Paul didn’t push him away. He was fucking the ghost in his head, using Pamela’s warm, willing body as a proxy. He tore at her clothes with a frantic urgency, his hands rough and possessive. He lifted her easily, his hands cupping her ass, and carried her to the bed.
He fucked her with a power and a savage intensity she had never experienced from him before. He was an animal, his thrusts deep and punishing, his grunts guttural and raw. And for a while, it was thrilling. Pamela cried out, her nails digging into the thick muscles of his back, her body arching to meet the relentless assault. This was the man she wanted, the dominant, confident jock, completely unleashed.
But then she looked up into his face.
His eyes were open, but he wasn't looking at her. He was looking through her, at something on the far wall, at a memory only he could see. His jaw was clenched, his expression not one of shared pleasure, but of a deep, agonizing strain, as if he were trying to physically force a square peg into a round hole. The sounds he was making, the raw, desperate moans, they weren’t for her. She was a tool, a means to an end.
A cold, sharp dread pierced through her arousal. She felt used. She felt like a stranger in her own bed, with her own boyfriend. The thrill curdled into a feeling of deep, profound alienation.
And the worst part of it… Luke didn’t notice. He was lost in his own violent fantasy. He was fucking Paul. He was pinning him down, claiming him, showing him who was in control. He was erasing the rejection, rewriting the script. He felt the climax building, a frantic, desperate surge. He flipped Pamela onto her stomach, grabbing her hips and slamming into her from behind, his final thrusts brutal and deep.
He came with a guttural roar, shouting a name that was lost in a choked, desperate sob.
Then he collapsed, not onto her, but beside her, rolling away immediately, his body slick with sweat, his chest heating. The act was over. The fix had failed.
Pamela lay face down on her bed, her body aching, her mind reeling. The silence in the room was a vast, empty wasteland. She felt a single, hot tear trace a path down her temple and into her hair. She had never felt more alone in her life.
Luke stared at the ceiling, the adrenaline bleeding out of him, leaving a cold, hollow ache in its place. He tried to fill the crushing silence with something normal, something routine.
“Hey...” he said, his voice raspy. “You hungry? We could… we could order a pizza or something.”
The suggestion was so absurd, so utterly tone-deaf, that a sound, sharp and brittle, escaped Pamela’s lips. It was a laugh, but it was completely devoid of humor.
“Pizza?” she repeated, her voice muffled by her pillow. She didn't lift her head. “You want to order a pizza right now?” The disdain in her tone was a physical thing, a sharp, cold slap.
The silence that followed was worse than before.
“Can I…?” he started, his voice uncertain. “Can I stay over?”
Pamela was quiet for a long, agonizing moment. Luke could hear the soft sound of her breathing, the rustle of the sheets. He waited, his entire sense of self hanging on her answer.
“My roommates are coming back soon...” she finally said, her voice flat and distant, as if speaking from the other side of a thick wall of glass. “You know they don’t like guys staying over on a weeknight.”
It was a lie. A polite, devastating lie. Her roommates loved him. But he understood the real message. I don’t want you here.
“Right.” he mumbled, the word tasting like defeat. “Yeah. Of course.”
He sat up, the movement feeling heavy, clumsy. He swung his legs off the bed and began to gather his discarded clothes from the floor. As he pulled on his jeans, he saw Pamela turn her back to him, curling into a tight ball facing the wall, a clear and final act of rejection. She didn't want to even look at him.
He finished dressing in the heavy silence, each rustle of fabric an accusation. He stood by the bed for a moment, looking at the curve of her back, a stranger in a room that had once felt like a second home. He needed to say something, to offer one last, desperate tether to the world he was losing.
“See you tomorrow, baby. I love you.” he said to her unmoving form.
The words felt hollow, a desperate echo from a life he no longer lived.
Pamela didn’t move. She didn’t turn. “Goodnight, Luke.”
Luke stood there for another second, a ghost in the room, before turning and walking out, closing the door behind him without another word. He was alone in the empty hallway, the full weight of his catastrophic failures crashing down on him. He hadn't just failed to fix things. He had shattered them completely.
and this time, it seems to be definitive.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
