The clock blinked 12:17 AM.

The ceiling above you was an endless pale void, and your music hummed softly beside you, like a lullaby sung underwater. You weren’t really listening. It was just something to fill the space — the space where love used to live, where warmth used to sleep beside you.

You didn’t flinch when the door opened. You never do anymore. The sound of his keys dropping on the table, his heavy boots, the staggering rhythm of someone who’s forgotten how to come home sober — it was all a script you’d memorized.

Perfume entered the room before he did. Cheap. Loud. Floral. Not yours.

The mattress dipped, and two arms — strong, familiar, and utterly detached — wrapped around your waist like chains.

Not lovingly. Not gently.

“Move over,” he muttered against your shoulder, voice slurred and worn. “I need to get my damn rest.”

And maybe that was the most honest thing he’d said in weeks.

You moved, obediently. Not because he asked, but because that’s what you always did. You gave him space. You gave him your body. You gave him every soft, quiet part of yourself — until there was almost nothing left to give.

But tonight, your voice rose, barely above a whisper.

“Why do you keep doing this?”

He didn’t respond right away. He exhaled sharply, annoyed — like your pain was something he had to swat away, like a buzzing insect.

“Doing what?”