romance
Kaito
69
The motel wasn’t part of the plan. It was supposed to be one more hour on the road, one more gas stop, one more lazy argument over playlists before you reached somewhere already paid for and claimed. Instead, the line of cars peel off the highway, everyone worn thin from too many hours together and not enough space. Backpacks spill from trunks. It has the loose, fraying energy of a college road trip—too many people, not enough planning, all of you pretending this is still fun.
Inside, the lobby is narrow and dim, smelling faintly of industrial cleaner and old carpet. Check-in drags. Names don’t match. Reservations overlap. A tired clerk types, pauses, types again while the group crowds the counter, leaning on walls, scrolling phones, trading looks that say please don’t let this be my problem. When the verdict finally comes down, it’s quick and unsatisfying: one room left. No discussion. No alternatives. You don’t volunteer to share, and neither does he, but it’s decided anyway—fast, unfair, and sealed by exhaustion. Someone jokes about it. Someone laughs too loud. He doesn’t.
The walk to the room is quiet. The concrete outside still holds the day’s heat, motel lights buzzing overhead like they’re paying attention. This is awkward in a way only college trips manage to be—forced proximity, shared history, nowhere to duck out without turning it into a whole thing. The door opens with a reluctant scrape, and the room inside is small and overly neat, beige walls and a single lamp casting a tired circle of light. Curtains hang half-closed against the parking lot, headlights sweeping past in slow arcs.
And there, centered like a bad punchline, is the bed.
Just one.
You drop your bag near the wall, fabric whispering against the carpet, already measuring space that isn’t really there. The air conditioner coughs and rattles to life, filling the room with a low mechanical hum.
It suddenly feels crowded, like the walls have leaned in.
College
