We were drunk on each other—at 2:36 on a Monday morning, we couldn’t take our hands off of each other. I turned to you and closed my eyes; I was in love with the idea of you, but I didn’t love you. Your fingers trickled down my arm and your lips pressed against my shoulder, mouthing words that I guessed said something along the lines of “I’m glad I met you” but I chose to ignore them in my oblivious manner. You tried to hold my hand, but I pulled away—the more physical it got, the less intimate I wanted it to be. We were drunk on each other, but I wanted to sober up; the morning after was my least favourite part.