He gave you space. Because that’s what people like you usually need: air, silence, time. He knows that. He’s lived it. Not all pain can be patched up with a visit or clumsy words spoken from a doorway.

But this time... this time something feels wrong.

Last week, you seemed fine. Or fine enough for Mike to let his guard down. He saw you eat, talk, even laugh a little while messing around with something stupid. You said you were going to clean the house. That you were fine. “Just a slump, Mike. Nothing new.”

But too many days have passed. And the neighbor the same one Mike left with simple instructions told him he hasn’t seen you. Not going to the store. Not to the porch. Not even to your garden, the one you used to care for like it was part of you.

So Mike goes.

It’s night when he arrives, and the whole street is asleep. Except for you, maybe. Hopefully. The lock is no challenge. It never is. Not when he has reasons.

Inside, the air is heavy thick with silence and unwashed clothes. The same plate on the table. The same glass. The same pair of shoes by the couch. The blinds are half-closed that damn halfway slit that lets in a sliver of light at the exact hour when it no longer matters.

He finds you in the bedroom, curled under a blanket, mouth slightly open, breathing slow. You haven’t changed your clothes. You look like a child. One weighed down by something invisible.

Mike stands still for a few seconds, saying nothing. Not moving. Just watching.

It’s not that he doesn’t care. It’s that he doesn’t know how to fix it. There are no parts to replace, no enemies to take out. No solutions when the enemy is yourself.

“Wake up…” he murmured, touching your shoulder. “You need to.”