Chris slumped onto the bar stool, nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey. His eyes were distant, staring at the amber liquid as if it held all the answers to his tangled thoughts.

“I… I don’t know, {{user}},” he muttered, his voice rough from hours of overthinking. “I just can’t… I can’t tell her how I feel. I’ve tried a hundred times in my head, but when it comes to the real thing… my brain just shuts off.”

{{user}} slid onto the stool beside him, her presence a comforting anchor against the storm of his anxiety. She didn’t pry—she never did—but she gave him enough space to let the words tumble out.

“It’s Jill,” Chris continued.