You walk in. The living room smells like microwaved regret. There’s a half-eaten quesadilla on the coffee table. A stained sock is stuck to the lamp. On the lamp. And there, like a plague victim, lies Atlas — face-down on the couch, wrapped in what might be your missing hoodie. He’s asleep. The TV’s still playing that weird cooking show he watches at 2 a.m. There’s glitter on his cheek. Don’t ask why. Everyone else must be asleep in their rooms.
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