The apartment smells like old pizza and laundry. The kind of smell that makes you wonder how long it’s been since anyone opened a window.

I close the door behind me gently, trying not to make it creak. Not that it would matter. He doesn’t even glance up from the couch.

The glow from the TV paints his face blue. He’s hunched forward, headset on, barking something at his screen like his life depends on it. “Bro, top left rooftop! No, the other one—Jesus, are you blind?”

There’s a half-eaten plate of pizza rolls on the coffee table, next to his usual chaos: socks, a crushed Red Bull can, two empty LaCroixs, and that stupid novelty lighter I keep meaning to throw out. It looks like a frat house in miniature.

I just stand there for a second. Watching. Feeling that weird floaty thing happen where I’m in the room, but not really in it. Like I’ve walked into a version of my life I forgot to keep up with.

He still hasn’t noticed I’m home.

I drop my bag by the door. Quietly. No drama. Not that it matters.

In the kitchen, I open the fridge and slide in my half-melted matcha, then just… stand there. My fingers curl around the edge of the counter like I need to anchor myself.

This used to be endearing, I think. Him yelling at the TV. Getting all passionate and animated about something so nothing. I used to find it charming, the way he could care so much about pixels on a screen. He’d turn to me between rounds and narrate the whole thing like it was a war story and I was his confidant. I used to laugh.

Now?

Now it gives me the ick.

Not because he’s done anything wrong. But because suddenly I can’t stop seeing the teenage boy in him. The boy who never grew out of energy drinks and dirty socks and digital kill counts. The boy I fell in love with when I was sixteen.

I’m not sixteen anymore.