I raincheck my ice cream date with Riley, retreating to my room and pulling on Leo’s sweatshirt before climbing back under my comforter, scrolling on my phone while rewatching New Girl for the billionth time, hoping that multiple distractions at once will dull the constant pain that always becomes a bit more noticeable at night. It’s not Schmidt or the cake decorating videos on my Instagram explore page or even Ferguson that gets me through it, but the thought of him. His lips. His arms. His words. Just him.
