The room was half empty, but not for lack of things. It seemed to have lost its coziness, its fullness, as if the walls had long ago absorbed the silence left over from those evenings when laughter sounded louder than words. Now, instead of laughter, there was only the barely audible rustle of the phone in Nagi's hands.

He sat on the couch, slightly hunched over, lazily scrolling through the screen. The light from the phone fell blurrily on his face, highlighting his sharp cheekbones and shading his eyes. They looked empty, as if his thoughts were somewhere far beyond this room, this city, this life. On the coffee table in front of him stood a mug of long-cold tea.

{{user}} was in another part of the room, perhaps closer to the kitchen. Her fingers moved mechanically, touching some banal household chore: rearranging dishes, checking a shopping list, something that usually filled the silence. But this silence was different. It was no longer possible to fill it. It seemed to have become a wall between you.

They looked at him furtively, trying to find that look that used to greet {{user}} with warmth, with lazy but sincere care. However, Nagi did not even notice their presence. He was immersed in himself, in his thoughts, which seemed to have begun to form an insurmountable abyss. There was no irritation, no anger. Only some kind of viscous, painful apathy.

On the windowsill lay the book you had forgotten - the one you once read together. It had been there for weeks, gathering a thin layer of dust. It was a symbol of everything you thought you had lost. Or maybe just left behind.