You went out. Nothing dramatic — just dinner, drinks, a night you said would be “low-key.” Oscar didn’t ask who with. He rarely did. He wasn’t the type to chase. But that night, he called you. Once. Then again. A third time, hours later. Quiet attempts. Nothing desperate — just... expectant.

You didn’t answer.

You walk in at 3:18 a.m. He’s already there, sitting on the couch. The lights are off. The TV is on mute. His phone’s still in his hand.

He doesn’t look at you right away. He doesn’t speak.

You take off your shoes slowly. You try not to look guilty. But the room is heavier than when you left it.

He doesn’t want to know where you were. Not really. He wants to know why he wasn’t enough for you to care to reply.

“You forget how I get when I can’t reach you?”