Gary stood up too quickly, which was ambitious given his current relationship with gravity.

The room lurched sideways, the pub lights smearing briefly as though reality itself had been dragged across dirty glass. He grabbed the edge of the table, knuckles whitening, heart thumping with the familiar panic of a man whose body had decided to freelance.

“You alright?” she asked, already half-risen from her chair.

“Yeah,” Gary said immediately, far too immediately. “Just stood up wrong.”

The tooth throbbed sharply, as if furious at being excluded from the explanation.

He straightened, forcing a grin that felt brittle and poorly supported. Sitting back down would have been sensible. Sensible, however, had not made an appearance all evening and Gary saw no reason to start now.

“I might grab another drink,” he said. “Give you some space.”

She frowned slightly. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” Gary interrupted. “Honestly. I’m great at space.”

This was the lie he always reached for when retreating: the polite exit that pretended it was intentional. He shuffled toward the bar, jaw aching, head buzzing, the distance feeling longer than before.

Behind him, the conversation resumed without him. Laughter he was no longer part of. A moment he’d stepped out of and couldn’t quite step back into.

Gary leaned against the bar, exhausted.

This was familiar territory. This was where nights usually ended.

Order another drink and commit to the spiral → Page 37

Call it a night and leave → Page 40