Morning came and the sun rose. Probably. Inho couldn’t see the sky at all through the thick grey clouds hanging over the city. The most painful part of grieving, Inho reflected, is when you first wake up. All the mental plans you’ve built to fix things, the comforting words you’ve told yourself to stay steadfast - it all vanishes with sleep. Then, you wake up gasping, panicked, and helpless like you’ve been drowning and only just broke through the surface of the water. Grief hits you full force.

Inho lay limp as it washed over him. He waited for his fragile mental defenses to shake themselves off and stand back up. He felt ashamed to be mourning his relationship because it wasn’t even officially over. Jamie hadn’t said it was over or anything, but he knew, he knew... he didn’t know.

Stop it.

Inho had the covers over his head but still hid his face in his hands.

Why are you such - A fucking - Loser?

You give up on everything. That’s why she doesn’t want you, why she’s outgrown you. She knows you’re going to give up. So just don’t. Stop it, Inho. You can change.

He dragged the heels of his hands roughly from his scalp to his chin. Rain pattered loudly against his window. From where he was hiding, he told himself it was cozy. At long last, he uncovered his damp face. His eyes absently fixed on a smeared Rorshach shape in the far corner of the roof. It looked a little like a pig - had he dreamed of a pig? He looked closer. It was black mold.

Steeling himself, he picked up his phone. Jamie hadn’t replied to his messages from last night, she'd just sent him a simple four-word text:

 "I need a break."

Does that mean we're done? A break-up? Some time apart? What is a break?

He knew she wouldn't answer if he asked for clarification so he sent her a good morning text instead. Then, he stared at his phone for five minutes before giving up. No reply. She must just be at work, he reassured himself. Though, work meant with her boss, Stephen, and who the hell knew what his deal was? Jealousy squeezed his gut.

Heaving a final heavy sigh, he climbed out of bed. He narrowly avoided the upper bunk with his forehead, but his foot landed on the edge of his duffle bag, knocking it over. Dildos, a paddle, assorted harnesses, and two types of lube spilled out. Inho gazed at them briefly, then stepped over and headed to the communal showers.

Later as he stood on the sidewalk outside, he felt a bit better after a night’s rest and some fresh clothes. If he’d waited for the jetlag to wear off, perhaps he wouldn’t have acted like such an idiot yesterday. But no! Shake it off! He scrubbed his fingers through his clean hair and started off, umbrella in hand. He would head to some restaurants and see what kind of part-time work he could find.

Wandering down a long stretch of damp street, he wove through decorative trees and other pedestrians, his umbrella bobbed in a jerky dance to dodge each one. A man in a long tan coat didn’t move his own umbrella and poked Inho in the face. The man didn’t stop or apologize. Inho paused, outraged, to stare after him.

It might just be that Stephen, was a frequent player in his angry daydreams lately, but those broad shoulders and expensive clothes certainly looked familiar. Inho paused, steaming. He considered calling out to the rich asshole, to rage at something and let out some of his stress. His morning of self-loathing had soured his insides, and he ached for an external target.

Instead, he reminded himself that Stephen had never actually wronged him. Also, that hating someone for being super attractive and successful around your girlfriend was petty. Especially, when Stephen seemed more interested in Inho himself than he was in Jamie. At long last, dodging this confusing line of thought, Inho concluded that yelling at Jamie's boss in the street would definitely antagonize her further. The man was gone now anyway. He breathed a long slow breath out.

There you go, he thought. Personal growth.

Wiping the splash of rainwater off his cheek, he continued up the street.

There were a lot of restaurants here, mixed with shops and cafes. It was extremely diverse, colorful, and slightly overwhelming. Here was a Japanese ramen chain nestled next to an Indian bistro. Over there was a Vietnamese pho shop beside a pizza place. Despite it being only 10 AM, there were plenty of people out, a mix of what looked like students and early-bird tourists.

Inho felt his luck turn a little when he spotted a help wanted sign taped to a brick wall beside an eyeglasses shop. There was a handwritten note on the bottom of the red sign. It read: “Up the Stairs”. He glanced around.

What stairs?

After pacing around a little, he noticed a doorbell next to an iron gate. When he pushed it, no sound indicated it had worked, but after a moment, the gate unlatched with a click. As he climbed the staircase, tiled with a delicate mosaic, he trailed his fingers along the elaborate plaster reliefs that lined the walls. Peeking down briefly at his white button-down tucked loosely into slim black jeans, he lightly brushed clammy hands over the tops of his thighs.

A small bell tinkled when he finally pushed the door open, and a group of four people looked up from a table where they sat talking. A man in his thirties with a leather and canvas apron was standing next to them, fists on his hips. He looked over when Inho entered, his stern face softening with a welcoming smile.