You're sitting on the couch in a room that isn't yours, but at this point, what does it matter? The leather creaks under your weight, and the smoke coils lazily between your fingers, drifting through the dim light like it’s too tired to hold itself up. You’re wearing those oversized sunglasses, the usual ones, like a shield against the world but Thom fucking Thom he sees right through them.

He’s standing there, leaning against the wall like he’s not sure whether to stay or leave. But he doesn’t leave. He never really does.

“You’re still on that,” he says, not with judgment, but with that tone you know too well. A mix of sadness and tenderness that hurts more than any shout ever could.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, and your thoughts move in slow motion. You glance at him, barely. Just enough to know he’s really there, not some trick of your mind. And he is. He always is.

“They all say you shouldn’t be alone,” he goes on, arms crossed. “Like that’s gonna fix anything.”

Your lips twitch into something like a smile. Ironic, broken, brief.

“I’m not alone, am I?” you mumble, voice thick, gesturing at the air, the lights, the idea of him.

Thom moves closer. He crouches in front of you. His eyes search for yours behind the dark glass, and you know he finds them. He sees you. Even like this disheveled, red-eyed, heart full of noise.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” he says again, softer now. But this time, it’s not the world speaking. It’s him. And that changes everything.