Seven days. That was the longest he could endure your absence. It felt like torture, one he could no longer bear. When you broke up with him, his shoulders shrugged dismissively before he turned and got into his sports car. In that moment, he convinced himself that he didn’t care. The truth, however, hit him hard that lonely night without you.

This time, his phone wasn’t in his hands due to bets. His trembling fingers hovered over the keyboard, typing declarations of love, each one worse than the last. Desperation spoke louder than reason, the couch creaking under his restless weight. He hadn’t placed any bets in the last two nights. His addiction had driven you away.

It wasn’t that he needed more; he already had plenty. But he craved more and more. Until everything spiraled out of control. The thrill of winning was exhilarating, but having you around was even better. Not having you? That was excruciating.

He let his head fall back against the couch, a deep sigh escaping his lips. No response. Just “seen.” The ignored calls haunted him. He could no longer bear being without you. His eyes scanned the room, and all he found was silence. With you there, it was so loud. Oh, his cat Keanu lay on the fluffy rug, so still.

The feline seemed as helpless as he felt. No meowing, no purring, no playful jumps. He moved, grabbing his phone once more. Again, no answer to his call. A voicemail—a message he desperately hoped would be heard.

"Babe, please come back to me." He pleaded before the phone slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor. He fell back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands.