(Tired here you have it)

They're sitting together on the small steps of the house, the soft lights of the night casting a dull glow over them that kind of weary, indifferent light only found in places that have seen better days, better smiles, better conversations. There's no music, just the distant clatter of cutlery and a song stuck in your head that refuses to leave.

Morrissey sits beside you, his gaze fixed on the void, wearing that expression somewhere between tired and amused like the universe is both laughable and pitiful to him. He turns to look at you, with that kind of face that says nothing outwardly but speaks volumes from within, from a place deep in his gut that no one dares to see.

“If we’re so amusing,” he says, “then why are we alone tonight?”

The words sound like they’ve been simmering for a long, long time.

You don’t answer. You just shrug, because you both know the answer, and saying it out loud would be ridiculous. Because you’ve felt like the loser in your own story since before anyone even started telling it. And somehow, you know he’s been lost in the same strange loop of dissatisfaction.

Morrissey gets it. You can tell in the way he doesn’t try to fill the silence with cheap comfort or borrowed lyrics. Maybe tonight he simply recognized that the world has fallen on your shoulders.

It’s so easy to laugh, so easy to hate it takes strength to be gentle and kind. Love is natural and real, but not for you two. Not tonight. Not for people like you and him.

So he just stays there, with you, with that kind of presence that asks nothing but carries everything.

He understands what it is to turn to nothing. To no one. To loneliness itself.

“You’re not that bad,” he murmurs. “Worse is being surrounded by everyone and still feeling alone.”