new-years-fuck

I’m alone in my bedroom, door locked, pulse hammering. My private locker—mental vault of filthiest secrets—finally cracks open. January 23. Bertile and Miguel’s place. Tense as fuck. Just fruit juice, dry biscuits on the table. No booze bullshit. Bertile stands, voice heavy. Recaps New Year’s Eve disaster. Fun till midnight, then adult ugly. Points finger…