The hotel room in Turin is too warm. Jamie’s snoring, sprawled out across the sheets like he owns the place, mouth slack, brow smooth for once. You’re awake, watching the shadowed ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint like they’ll offer you answers.

He mumbles something in his sleep, soft and almost tender, but it only reminds you how far he drifts now—even in rest. You used to meet in the middle. Now you pass each other like trains on separate tracks, too fast to notice how the windows never line up.

You roll over, face buried in your arm.

He stirs. “You awake?”

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

“I dreamt we were back in Manchester,” he says groggily. “You remember that chippy near Piccadilly? The one with the pink chairs?”

You hum. “You threw up out the taxi window after.”

He laughs, muffled by the pillow. “Yeah. Still worth it.”

You should say something sweet. Something real. But instead you mutter, “You pout in your sleep, you know.”

Jamie flips over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He sits up, rubs his eyes, squints at you. “Is this about last week?”

“No. It's about last month. Last year. Every time I get into bed and you're already gone—mentally, physically, whatever.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“No, I’m being tired, Jamie.”

The silence settles sharp between you.

You think about everything you’ve done to keep this thing from falling apart. The desperate date nights. The birthday cake shaped like a joke he doesn’t laugh at anymore. The way you still flinch when he brushes you off like he doesn't mean to.

Jamie sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “We’re not the same anymore, are we?”

“No,” you say, voice raw. “You’re a pleasure cruise. And I’m… fuck, I’m a trawler. Dragging what’s left behind me.”

He doesn’t argue.

Because maybe he knows it too.

That love this loud was never meant to whisper.