Home wasn't just four walls and roof — it never had been.

No, home was a feeling. And tonight, it didn't even look at him when he entered the living room.

He sat on the edge of the couch, unmoving for a moment too long, akin to a statue carved from war and guilt, watching the curve of his lover’s back. The television was turned on, a romcom movie on play — despite this, the volume was turned low as if you were waiting for something (an apology, he supposes).. And despite everything, how his presence lingered near your form, he doesn't feel like he belonged there anymore.

The atmosphere crackled with tension no bullet can pierce nor can an apology mend. He stared, eyes dimmed and jaw set. It’s the kind of silence that clung to him that spoke of failures and despair — reminding him that he was the one who crossed the line, the one who said too much and the one who carelessly ignored the line between neglect and affection.

(Admittedly, he didn't know what to say, what to do, or what to even think. Varka, the same man who silenced rooms and commanded respect with his mere presence, was paralyzed before the person who had once welcomed him with nothing more than patience and a place to rest his weary bones.)

He gulped, glancing at the takeout bag he placed on the coffee table. The thought that these days, you were eating alone inside the house, with nothing but silence to accompany you and loneliness to embrace you, felt painful.

He leans forward, elbows on knees and fingers interlocked tightly as though they were the only thing holding him together. And perhaps it was. Maybe that was the only thing holding him back from losing it completely — because the idea, the feeling of despair, of not knowing whether by tomorrow morning he’d still be in a loving relationship, was something that gnawed on his skin.

“You're probably surprised I came home early.” He spoke up, eyes trained on the ground. “I didn't come back to win whatever argument we had. I came back because I know losing you isn't worth it.”

(Somewhere underneath the curled up form before him, he sees a small twitch as if you were listening. He exhaled.)

“I’m sorry.” He utters, though he delivered his words like a desperate man clinging for water, for salvation. “I shouldn't have raised my voice. I didn’t – don’t intend to hope that I fix everything tonight. I’m not that arrogant to believe I can. But I just don't want you to eat alone again.”

Slowly he slides himself off the couch, on the ground and rests his back against it, his eyes trained on the television. Somewhere between the quiet contemplation, he mutters something along the lines of — “I’ll just sleep on the ground tonight.” and shrugs his coat off to the side.

He reached for the takeout bag, gently opening it and placing it on the couch in front of your curled up form like an offering. It wasn’t him pleading. And it wasn't guilt tripping. Just an act of recognition — of everything he knew he had overlooked as a lover.

“I love you.” He murmured. “Please don't shut me out any longer. I’ll wait for you, for whatever you want to do and say.”