CHLOE

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I lay on the pull-out couch, my head throbbing from a hangover, the events of last night a hazy blur. But I remember Kate—vividly. She wasn't in bed beside me, and for a moment, confusion gripped me. I turned and saw her across the room, pulling on her work clothes, the morning light casting shadows through the half-drawn blinds.

"Am I ever gonna see you again?" I asked, my voice thick with fatigue and something else—hope, maybe. But I already knew the answer. The look on her face told me everything I needed to know. She wasn't planning on sticking around. Another one-night stand. Nothing more, nothing less. I felt a pang of frustration. "Practically useless," I muttered under my breath.

"You know what? If you're just gonna get what you want and then dip... leave!" My voice cracked slightly, a mix of anger and embarrassment. I didn't know why I had even bothered trying with her; I'd met her at a corner bar, for Christ's sake. I should have known better.

Kate paused, her hand hovering over the last button of her shirt. For a brief moment, I thought she might say something, explain herself or offer a half-hearted apology for just letting me take her home. But she didn't. She just buttoned her shirt the rest of the way up, grabbed her purse, and shut the door behind her with a deliberate finality.

And there it was again. Another dumb fling. Not even a fling—a hit and dip.

I sighed, sinking back into the lumpy cushions of the couch.  I stared at the ceiling, wondering when I'd stop getting caught up in these meaningless encounters. But for now, I just lay there, the taste of stale alcohol on my tongue and the feeling of another missed connection gnawing at my chest.

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