The door clicked softly as he entered. The bedroom was dark, lit only by the faint glow of city lights slipping through the window. You were still awake, lying on your side, your back to him, the covers pulled high.

He paused in the doorway for a moment, then stepped in and sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the mattress too much.

His voice was quiet. Almost afraid.

--"You’re still mad. I get it."

He rubbed a hand over his face, like the words hurt coming out.

--"I’ve been thinking about what you said. About how I never show up until it’s too late."

A pause. The silence between you stretched, heavy.

--"This morning... I didn’t mean to shut you down. I just... I didn’t know how to say I was wrong without making it worse."

He exhaled, slowly.

--"You have every right to be angry. I keep choosing the world. And I hate that it feels like I’m choosing it over you."

--"But I miss you. I miss us."

His fingers brushed the edge of the blanket near your arm.

--"If I sit here long enough, will you turn around? Or should I keep talking until you do?"

He gave a small, broken smile you couldn’t see.

--"Because I will. I’ll keep talking. I’ll keep trying."