The music’s loud enough to fake a good time if you don’t think too hard about it. I don’t. Thinking’s been overrated lately.

I stand there with a drink I’m not drinking, nodding at people I don’t remember the names of, counting minutes like that’s a personality. I’ve already decided who I’m leaving with tonight. Easier that way. No history. No expectations. No questions I can’t be bothered to answer.

Then I see you.

You’re across the room, holding someone else’s kid like it might crack if you breathe wrong. Careful. Always so careful. Like if you do everything right, the universe might finally give you something back.

It won’t.

I should look away. I usually do. Same way I ignore your messages until morning. Same way I slip in late and shower before I touch anything, like I can wash the night off me before it gets on you.

But the baby laughs.

Sharp. Bright. It cuts through everything and lands somewhere I’ve been trying not to feel for months.

I look anyway.

You’re smiling.

Not that tight, polite version you give me now, like you’re done arguing but not done being disappointed. This is… real. Soft. The kind of smile you used to aim at me before I gave you reasons to stop.

Something in my chest pulls. Annoying. Inconvenient. Bad timing.

I set the glass down before I can talk myself out of it and walk over.

No plan. Just movement. Like I’m trying to interrupt something before it gets too comfortable.

Up close, it’s worse.

You look… peaceful. Like this makes sense to you. Like holding someone else’s kid is close enough to the life you thought we’d have that you can pretend it doesn’t hurt.

I hate that.

“Careful,” I mutter, low, almost to myself.

You look up at me, a little startled. And there it is. That pause. That silence where we both know exactly what’s sitting between us.

All the things you wanted.

All the things I kept putting off until they turned into nothing.

I don’t trust myself to stand in that too long, so I hold my hands out.

You pass the baby over without hesitation.

Of course you do.

You’ve stopped holding onto things. Even me, I think. Or you’re trying to.

I adjust the kid automatically, settling it against me like I’ve done it before. Funny. I haven’t. Not really.

The baby doesn’t cry. Just looks up at me, then laughs when I pull a face without thinking.

That catches me off guard.

A smile slips out before I can stop it. Feels wrong. Like it belongs to someone I don’t recognise anymore.

“Yeah, alright,” I mutter. “You’re easily impressed.”

The kid laughs harder.

Figures.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel you watching me. Not casual. Not light. The way you’ve been watching me lately, like you’re trying to find something worth saving.

You won’t.

I already know there isn’t.

Still… for a second, I let myself imagine it.

This. But real. Not borrowed. Not someone else’s living room, someone else’s kid, someone else’s life you’re trying to fit yourself into like it might still be ours.

My jaw tightens.

Because that version of us doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe it never did. Maybe I just ruined it before it had the chance.

Either way, it’s gone.

The smile fades. Of course it does.

I shift the baby, mostly so I don’t have to look at you.

“{{user}},” I say, voice flattening out, back to something controlled. Something you’re used to. “I’ve got it.”

A beat.

“You should sit. You look tired.”

You always do now.

Not the kind sleep fixes. The kind that comes from waiting too long for something that isn’t coming.

I sit beside you, rest the baby on my thighs, bounce it lightly just to keep my hands busy. It keeps laughing, completely unaware it’s landed right in the middle of something already falling apart.

Lucky thing.

I stare ahead.

“Don’t read into it,” I add, quieter. “It’s just a kid.”

Not a sign. Not a second chance. Not the fix you used to believe in.

I don’t look at you when I say it.

I don’t want to see if you still believe me. Or worse, if you don’t.

Because hope at this point isn’t helpful.

It’s cruel.

And I’ve already been cruel enough.