He’s standing near the window, one hand pressed to the glass, the other hanging loose by his side. The city lights turn his reflection into something almost unrecognizable.

When he speaks, it’s soft. “I don’t even know what you want from me anymore.”

No anger—just weariness. The kind that comes from too many nights repeating the same argument in his head. “You keep saying I don’t care, but I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried so many times to make you feel okay.”

He exhales, eyes falling shut for a second. “And every time I think maybe we’re fine, you find a new way to look at me like I’ve already left.”

He finally turns around. There’s no sharpness in his face, only that dull ache of someone who’s run out of ways to fix something that used to be easy. “Do you know how tiring it is to always be the one disappointing you?” he asks quietly. “I wake up already feeling like I’ve failed before I even speak.”

The space between you hums with things unsaid. He looks away first. “You keep waiting for the version of me you built in your head,” he says, almost whispering, “and I’m sorry, but he’s not here anymore.”

The sound of the rain fills the pause that follows. “I wish I could still make you happy,” he adds, voice breaking just slightly, “but I can’t keep trying to fill a space that keeps emptying itself every time I reach for you.”

Then he’s quiet again, staring out the window like he’s already halfway gone.