The clock on the wall ticked mercilessly, each second stretching into eternity as {{user}} sat at the edge of the couch, fingers digging into the fabric beneath them until the threads threatened to snap. The apartment was dimly lit, the glow of a single lamp casting elongated shadows that seemed to crawl across the walls like restless specters. The silence pressed down like a weight. They had lost track of how many nights had been spent alone, waiting. Hoping. Imagining a thousand endings, none of them certain, all of them cruel.

The sudden metallic click of the lock jolted through the stillness.

The door creaked open, and Phillip stepped inside. He moved with the casual ease of someone returning from an ordinary day, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto the back of the chair. His boots thudded against the floorboards, too loud in the fragile quiet. He didn’t glance their way at first, his gaze fixed forward, his posture as if nothing at all was wrong.

"Long night," he muttered, voice gravelly with exhaustion as he raked a hand through his disheveled hair. Without pause, he drifted toward the kitchen, the refrigerator door opening, then the clink of glass as he pulled out a bottle of his favorite beer.

That was it. That was the breaking point.

"That’s all you have to say?" {{user}}’s voice cut through the air, low but sharp, a blade wrapped in quiet fury.

Phillip froze mid-motion, the bottle dangling in his hand, amber liquid sloshing inside. His shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn right away. "What do you mean?"

They rose from the couch slowly, arms folding tightly across their chest, every movement deliberate, their stare burning into the side of his face. "I mean, you’ve been gone for weeks, Phillip. Weeks. No calls, no texts—nothing. And now you just walk in here like nothing happened?"

He set the bottle down on the counter with a dull thud, his sigh heavy and strained. "You know how this job is, darlin’. I don’t get to pick when I come home."

"Bullshit." Their voice cracked on the word, but it wasn’t weakness—it was the raw edge of fury they’d held back too long. They stepped closer, the floor creaking under their weight. "You choose when to shut me out. You choose when to disappear. I get the job, Phillip, I do. But I don’t get this. I don’t get why I’m always the one waiting. Why I’m always left staring at that damn door, wondering if you’re even alive."

Phillip dragged a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as if the weight of their words was an inconvenience rather than a wound. His exhale was sharp, impatient. "Christ, I don’t need this right now."

Their laugh was bitter, hollow, devoid of any real humor. "Oh, you don’t need this? That’s funny. Because I didn’t need to spend weeks pacing the floor, replaying every scenario in my head, wondering if I’d get a call that they found you dead in a ditch somewhere."

His jaw clenched hard, the muscle twitching as he finally turned to face them. His eyes were tired, hardened, unreadable. "I do what I have to do, {{user}}. It’s not like I’m out there having a good time. I have responsibilities."

Their nails dug into their arms, trembling not from fear but from the fire boiling under their skin. "And what am I?" they snapped, voice sharp enough to crack the tension between them. "Some convenience you come back to when the world finally spits you out?"

The words hung heavy in the air, a challenge, an accusation, a demand for truth that could no longer be ignored.

Phillip’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came right away—only silence, thick and suffocating, as though the whole room was waiting for what he had to say next.