The door clicked shut behind you with a tired sigh, keys dropping into the bowl by the entrance like clockwork. The apartment was dim, curtains drawn, the only light coming from the TV’s soft, flickering glow.

You stepped into the living room and saw him there—sunk deep into the couch, still in the same hoodie he wore when you left this morning. His eyes were heavy, rimmed with the kind of exhaustion sleep never seemed to fix anymore.

“You’ve been here all day?” you asked softly, setting your bag down.

He didn’t look at you. Just shrugged. “Didn’t feel like doing anything.”

It had been three weeks since he lost the job. Three weeks of job listings bookmarked but never opened, of blank stares, cold dinners, and mornings where he wouldn’t get out of bed until long after you left.

Three weeks of you walking into a house that felt less like home each day.

Now it was like living with someone you used to know. Someone who looked like him, sounded like him, but moved like a ghost.

And you missed him. God, you missed him even while he sat right in front of you.