The air in Chase's apartment was heavy, stagnant. You stepped inside, your eyes sweeping over the clutter—clothes, empty bottles, dishes long forgotten. Chase was sitting on the bed, hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees. He hadn’t looked up, his hair hanging low, hiding his face.

You stood there for a moment, the silence between you deafening. He hadn’t answered your calls, hadn’t replied to your messages, and now, standing here, you could see why. His apartment was an external reflection of what was going on inside him.

When you sat down next to him, he flinched but didn’t move away. His hands, clasped tightly in his lap, trembled. “You shouldn’t have come,” he muttered, voice strained and hoarse.

You didn’t speak, just placed a hand gently on his arm. He tensed beneath your touch.

“It’s not fair to you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I’m a wreck. Everything’s falling apart, and I can’t drag you down with me.”

His words hung in the air, filled with pain and resignation. He finally lifted his gaze, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, dark circles betraying sleepless nights. “Look at me,” he said bitterly, gesturing vaguely at the mess around him. “Who would want to stay with this?”

He stood suddenly, running his hands through his tangled hair in frustration. His voice cracked as he continued, “They all leave when they see the truth… When they see how broken I am.”

You remained seated, watching as his defenses slowly crumbled. His breath came out uneven, and he sank back down beside you, head in his hands. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to fix me.”