Page 106 of Impulse Control
I lay awake staring at the ceiling, memorizing the weight of him, the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the way being wanted like this felt both grounding and dangerous.
My brain was already moving through tomorrow’s logistics.
Meetings.
Edits.
Classes.
Dinner with Alix.
A call with Frankie I’d postponed twice.
I felt full.
I felt empty.
I felt lucky.
I felt like I was running a marathon I hadn’t trained for — again.
And the worst part?
I didn’t want to stop.
I just wanted more time.
More hours. More versions of myself. More ways to exist without choosing.
I rolled onto my side and pressed my forehead into Dominic’s shoulder, breathing him in — shampoo, soap, sleep, the faintest trace of the city still clinging to his clothes.
I told myself I had this under control.
I told myself I was happy.
I told myself I’d rest later.
I told myself a lot of things.
None of them involved slowing down.
Friday arrived without ceremony.
No dramatic countdown. No final checklist. Just the slow, sinking realization — somewhere between my second coffee and my third unanswered email — that this was it. The last day he’d wake up in my bed. The last morning he’d sit at my kitchen tablepretending not to notice how often I checked the clock like it might betray us.
He wouldn’t pack until the afternoon.
Which felt quietly cruel — like we were both pretending time wasn’t real as long as we didn’t give it a suitcase.
Worse, I had to leave.
Not for anything important enough to justify it emotionally. Just a shoot where I was shadowing Cyrus, another photographer from the Daily who madecompetentfeel like a personality flaw. I handled lenses. Adjusted lights. Nodded at instructions I could’ve given myself. I told myself I was lucky to be there. I told myself this was how careers worked.
At school it was even faster — a critique I half-listened to, notes I scribbled without retaining, a professor who smiled like I wasn’t already halfway gone.
I skipped the métro on the way back and took a car instead, watching the city blur past the window, calculating minutes like they were currency.
Every red light felt personal.
