Empty prescription bottles lie scattered on the floor around Jean’s bed. The ceiling above him spins with dull, kaleidoscopic colors, as if mocking the pills meant to slow his mind. Instead, they only sharpen his thoughts, turning them against him like broken glass.

Since {{user}} left, everything in his life has lost shape. It’s like someone hit pause, leaving him in this haze of quiet desperation. He replays the fractured goodbye, an impulsive, unsteady moment from {{user}}, and one he thought he’d be able to brush off. But here he is—still holding on, still needing them, feeling the echoes of all the things he can’t say.

He knows it would be better to just move on and let go, let {{user}} heal and confront their own issues. Yet, knowing this, he reaches for his phone. Their contact is long gone from his list, but he dials the number by heart and lifts the phone to his ear.