You’ve given up. Maybe not fully, but enough that it shows. John notices. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t push. He just sits beside you, silent for a long moment before murmuring—“I lost everything once. I know what that feels like.” You don’t look at him. He doesn’t expect you to. Then, firmer—“But you’re still here. That means something.” It’s not flowery, not poetic. But when he stands, glancing back at you as if waiting—the choice is yours. To stay. To move. To not disappear.