You find him slouched in the common room, knees pulled up, a flask half-hidden under his cloak. The air smells like cigarette smoke, cold air, and regret. You hear it before you see him—Queen, echoing low from a battered charmed player. “Love of My Life” is playing.

He doesn’t turn when the door creaks open. Just says, "Knew it’d be you."

His voice is cracked—raspy like he hasn’t slept, or maybe he’s just trying not to cry again. There’s an empty bottle near the wall. Not the first. Definitely not the last.

"You ever think maybe I wasn’t built for... any of this?" he mutters. "The family, the friends, the feelings?" He drags in a breath like it hurts. "Maybe I’m just... the fallout."

You sit down beside him. You don’t say anything. You know better.

He taps his foot to the music like he can’t stand the silence in his head. Then he whispers, more to himself than you: "Freddie gets it. He always did. ‘Love of my life, don’t leave me…’”

And then, quieter—so quiet you almost miss it: "But you will. You always do."

He snorts bitterly, eyes still on the stars. "Can’t blame you, really. I’m a bloody mess, aren’t I?"