When We Were Still Ours – Chapter 14
Gay Erotica, Cheating, 18+
In the last installment…
R. Adrian Thorne ⏾⋆.˚
CHAPTER 14: OCCAM’S RAZOR — AARON
CASEY’S PROBABLY SICK OF me by now. I’ve been camped out on his couch since we got back from the clinic yesterday, long enough for the cushions to start remembering the shape of me. Full STI panel. HIV testing. Blood drawn, questions asked, pamphlets I didn’t take. Now it’s just waiting—and the waiting’s the worst part. It gives my brain too much room to work with, too many directions to run.
I don’t know what I have. That’s the truth of it. Not in a dramatic way—just blunt, unresolved fact. And every time I try to stop on something definitive, my mind splits it into five different possibilities, each one just plausible enough to stick.
Casey hasn’t said anything about it. Not about me being here, not about the way I’ve barely moved from this spot except to refill another mug. But I can feel it anyway—the quiet adjustment, the way he gives me space without making it obvious. I’ve gone through at least eight cups of tea at this point. Probably more. I’ve stopped keeping track.
It’s something to hold onto. Something warm. Something I can finish.
I keep reaching for every cliché I’ve ever heard, turning them over like they might finally fit if I phrase them right—You’ve handled worse. You always figure it out. You’ve made it through every bad day so far. I line them up, one after the other, like they’re supposed to build something solid under me.
They don’t.
They sound thin in my head. Like rehearsed lines in an empty auditorium.
I’m still wired, still restless in a way that doesn’t burn off. My leg won’t stop bouncing against the edge of the couch. My fingers keep finding my phone before I even realize I’ve reached for it. Refresh. Nothing. Refresh again. Nothing. The motion is automatic now—thumb dragging down the screen, watching the little wheel spin, like if I do it enough times something will give. Like I can force the result to arrive faster just by refusing to look away.
The screen’s starting to feel too bright. My eyes ache, but I don’t stop. I keep checking the same inbox, the same empty space where something is supposed to appear and hasn’t yet. It’s not even logical anymore. It’s just repetition. Compulsion. The illusion of doing something when I’m actually doing nothing at all.
Aaron, when it’s time for you to know, you’ll know.
That’s what Casey said earlier, soft, like he was trying not to spook me. Like this was something that could be handled gently.
I tried to sit with that. Really, I do. Let it settle and ruminate and all that good stuff. Let it mean something—anything, really.
But it doesn’t hold.
Because “when it’s time” still means there’s a universe where the answer is bad. It means there’s something coming, something already decided, just…not here yet. It feels like a punch to the gut, like something is sitting out there waiting on me and I’m the only one who doesn’t know.
If it’s bad, there’s no clean way out of it. That’s the part that keeps snagging—my brain circling the same point, tightening instead of resolving. I keep trying to find something simple to follow, some clean line of reasoning that leads me somewhere steady, but every thought doubles back on itself. I keep thinking about Ariadne’s thread—how it was supposed to be enough, just one line to follow out of the maze. Something constant. Something that didn’t shift while you moved.
But I don’t have that. There’s nothing here that holds. Every time I think I’ve found a way through—some explanation, some outcome I can brace for—it slips, reroutes, disappears. I’m left standing in the same place, just more aware of how lost I am. The maze isn’t just confusing—it’s alive, changing shape around me, and I don’t have anything to lead me back out.
And waiting for it feels worse than knowing.
The phone dings mid-thought.
It cuts clean through everything. No buildup. No warning. Just sound—and suddenly my entire body is somewhere else.
My hand is already moving before I register it. I grab the phone too fast, nearly drop it, catch it against my palm. My thumb hesitates for half a second over the screen, like opening it is a point of no return.
It’s an email.
The email.
My chest tightens, sharp and immediate, like something inside me just locked into place. This is it. This is the thread. The answer. The way out. Whatever this has been building toward—it’s here now.
I open it.
