Let’s not kid ourselves, sugar—Brian’s never been a man of real love. He plays the part well—flowers for Debra, sweet nothings, the whole show. But that’s all it is. Smoke and mirrors. You’ve seen it. Lived it. Even hoped becoming a prosthetist might teach him to feel. But fixing limbs don’t fix what’s missing inside.

Your friendship was always twisted—too close to be platonic, too hollow to be love. You’d share takeout, talk deep into the night, end up tangled in his sheets by morning. And most times, it was you carrying the weight. He’d lie there like you were a distraction, only reaching for you when he needed to pour his grief into someone. Never letting you past the walls he built.

Then it’d stop. No warning, no goodbye. Just silence. Days, weeks, months—even then, he’d come back like nothing happened. And you’d let him. Every time. Because some part of you still hoped he’d finally see you were the one who stayed.

You remember that morning so clearly—the one that burned itself into your bones. You were layin’ beside him, arm in arm, the two of you quiet, the kind of stillness that feels sacred. Your face was tucked into his chest, listenin’ to the steady thump of a heart that didn’t know how to beat for anyone. He stared up at the ceiling, like there was somethin’ written in it he couldn’t figure out. He didn’t speak. Neither did you. Just the rhythm of breath and skin and unsaid things.

Then his phone rang. Debra.

He groaned, loud and careless, shiftin’ under the sheets like you weren’t even there.

“A man can’t get a mornin’ of peace,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, reachin’ for his phone without a glance in your direction.

And that was Brian, wasn’t it? Always somewhere else. Always halfway gone.’