Schrödinger’s Confession
Schrodinger's Confession
LEO
Can't sleep. Obviously, can't sleep. Max is snoring next to me, soft, rhythmic, completely oblivious, and my brain won't shut off. The kiss keeps replaying. Over and over. A loop I can't escape.
I kissed him back.
That's the part I can't logic away. Can't pretend it didn't happen.
I kissed my drunk best friend back, and for approximately four seconds, I forgot every reason why that was a terrible idea.
I roll onto my side and look at him. He's drooling on my pillow.
There's a small wet spot forming, his mouth is slightly open, and his hair is sticking up in seventeen different directions.
He looks ridiculous. He looks… No. Nope. Not going there. I force my eyes to the ceiling instead. Safer. The ceiling has never made me question my entire existence.
"You're perfect," Max had said. Slurred, really. But he'd meant it. I could hear it in his voice. Or maybe he was really, really drunk.
There's a 73% chance he won't remember any of this. 22% chance he remembers but regrets it. 5% chance he… what? Doubles down? Meant every word? Actually, knowing Max, that 5% might be optimistic.
This is like Schrodinger's cat. Until Max wakes up, he both meant it and didn't mean it simultaneously. The waveform hasn't collapsed yet. Except that's not how Schrodinger's cat works, and I'm losing my mind. I've officially lost my mind.
Max makes a small sound, shifts slightly, and his hand flops across the space between us. His knuckles brush my arm. I should move. Put more distance between us. Except I don't.
When did I stop minding Max drooling on my pillow? When did drool become endearing? That's it. I need help. Professional help. Or at least someone to tell me I'm not completely insane. It's all Luca's fault… No, it's Max and Luca's fault. I never thought… things until now.
I slide out of bed carefully. Max doesn't even stir, just keeps snoring, and I grab my phone off the nightstand. 4:47 AM. Someone in this house must be awake, since the kitchen light is on.
Thank god. It’s JP. He’s sitting at the table with his first Americano of the day, hair slightly damp from a shower, wearing his usual morning uniform of dark joggers and a plain T-shirt. He looks up when I walk in. Takes one look at my face and gets up without a word.
I watch as he crosses to the coffee maker and starts prepping another Americano.
His movements are efficient, practiced. He doesn't ask if I want one.
Just makes it. A minute later, JP slides the cup across the table to me.
He sits back down and waits. JP's silences don't make my brain spin by trying to fill them.
He doesn't push. Doesn't pry. Just… exists, patient, until you're ready.
I wrap both hands around the cup. It's too hot to drink yet, but the warmth helps. My fingers start tapping against the ceramic. Can't help it. Nervous energy has to go somewhere. JP sips his coffee. Watches me fidget, and waits. "Something happened last night," I finally say.
He doesn't react. JP nods slightly like 'Go on.'
"And I don't know what to think about it." More silence. He's good at this. Annoyingly good.
"I need…" I stop. Start again. "I need to talk about it. But it involves Max, so..."
"Okay," JP says. Simple. Calm. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Yeah, but—" I hesitate. "It's private. His private business, I mean."
"You know I don't gossip about private things." I do know that. JP's vault-like when it comes to personal stuff. It's why people trust him.
"I know. It's just… this is big." He nods once, calmly waiting for me to spit it out. I take a breath.
"Max proposed an idea last night. While drunk. Very drunk."
"Okay."
"He—" How do I even say this? "He wants me to be his first time." JP's expression doesn't change. He takes another sip of coffee. That's it. That's his entire reaction.
"He had this whole… argument," I continue, words coming faster now that I've started.
"About known variables and trust and optimal partner selection…
yes, he used that phrase, and how those guys he's been dating have been terrible, and that guy at the club was awful, and I'm safe, and we already live together, so it's 'logistically convenient'—"
"Did he actually say logistically convenient?"
"He said I was like open-source software. Pre-built and available."
JP's mouth twitches. Almost a smile. "It's not funny."
"It's a little bit funny."
"It's not." I'm gripping my cup too hard. "And then he… we…" My voice cracks. "He kissed me." Silence. "And I kissed him back."
More silence. JP doesn't fill it, just waits, watching me over his coffee cup. "It's crazy, right?" I'm looking at JP like he has answers. "It's completely crazy."
"Why is it crazy?"
I blink. "What?"
"Why is it crazy?" JP repeats, like it's a genuine question.
"Because… because…" I'm sputtering. "It's Max. He's my friend. My best friend. Not my… my sex buddy or whatever." My face is burning saying it out loud.
JP considers this. Takes another sip of coffee. "Max was drunk last night."
"Yes!" I latch onto this. "Exactly. Very drunk. So drunk."
"It could be just that."
The relief is immediate. Physical. My shoulders drop. "Right. Yeah. Drunk talk. He won't even remember."
"But," JP says. But. No. No buts. I don't want buts. "I understand his arguments," JP continues. "Max got a real scare last night. That guy was aggressive." I remember the way Max looked when we got to him, the panic in his eyes. My hands curl into fists. "And his dates have been… frankly bad."
Can't argue with that. Every guy Max has gone out with has been a disaster. Wrong chemistry, no connection, that one asshole who made fun of his robot socks.
"So I can see why his best friend, who is marginally attractive—" I throw a balled-up napkin at him, but he just laughs and ducks.
"As I was saying. His marginally attractive best friend," he says, grin widening, "safe, trustworthy…" The grin fades. His hands settle around his cup. "Leo, you two have a friendship I envy."
I don't know what to do with that. Can't look at him directly. The kindness in his voice is so genuine that it makes it impossible to dismiss. "You make sense," JP says quietly. "To be his first time. You make sense."
"No." The word comes out sharp. "No, that's… we can't…" I'm standing now, pacing. When did I stand up? "It would ruin everything. I can't lose my best friend over sex."
"Max will always be your best friend."
"You don't know that. What if it's weird after? What if he regrets it? What if I regret it?" JP's watching me pace, one eyebrow lifted slightly, mouth quirking. "What?" I demand.
"You know him very well."
"Of course I do."
"So." He leans back in his chair. "Do you think he's going to let this drop easily?"
The horror dawns slowly. Oh no. I stop pacing. "No. Not if he thinks he's right." I cross back to the table and put my forehead down on the counter. "Nooooo."
JP's laughing now. Actually laughing. "Nope. You're screwed.” I don't lift my head. "Like," he continues, clearly delighted, "maybe actually screwed."
I flip him off without looking. He laughs harder. "Seriously," I say, voice muffled against the counter. "I can't lose my best friend over sex. It's just... no." I hear his chair scrape back, footsteps, and then his hand claps my shoulder as he passes.
"Maybe he won't remember a thing," JP says. There's zero conviction in his voice. The kitchen door swings shut behind him. He never actually told me not to do it....Huh.
Lifting my head, I look at my coffee. It's probably cold now.
I'm alone. "Maybe he won't remember a thing.
" I bang my forehead against the counter again, softer this time, just resting there.
But I won't forget it. The kiss. The way Max looked at me, even drunk, even with his coordination shot, there was conviction in how he kissed me.
You're perfect, he'd said. And I'd wanted to believe him.
I sit up slowly. Max is upstairs right now. Sleeping. Drooling on my pillow. Probably not dreaming about any of this because his brain has been thoroughly pickled by vodka. But I'm down here. Wide awake. Thinking about the kiss.
My hand drifts up to my lips before I can stop it.
I drop it immediately. What am I doing? But the thought won't go away.
Max kissed like he meant it — sloppy, enthusiastic, but there was confidence underneath the drunk coordination.
Like he'd made up his mind, and his body was catching up.
And I kissed back. Wanted to keep kissing. Wanted—
No. Stop. Don't finish that thought. Except I already have.
The sun's starting to come up, light filtering through the kitchen window and turning everything soft and golden.
I should go back upstairs. Max might wake up soon — probably panicking, definitely hungover.
I should be there. But I sit in the kitchen instead, coffee going cold in front of me, and let myself think the thing I've been avoiding all night:
What if he meant it?
Not just the logistics. Not just the trust, the safety, the known variables. But everything. What if Max meant it? And worse… so much worse…
What if I want him to?