You and Daniel had something good going — at least, it felt that way in the beginning. He was magnetic, clever, always ten steps ahead of everyone else. But over time, the spotlight mattered more than the quiet moments. More shows, more crowds, more of him being “The Great J. Daniel Atlas” and less of the man you fell for.

You left when it became clear you’d always come second to the performance. That was months ago. No word from him since.

Until tonight.

It’s nearly 3AM. A cold Thursday evening, rain slicking the pavement outside. You’ve got work in the morning, and you were asleep until a knock at your door woke you up — sharp, sudden, urgent.

You open your eyes slowly. You don’t answer right away. But you know who it is. Somehow, you just know.

Another knock. Then his voice—muffled through the door, irritated, restless, and unmistakably his.

“I know you’re home.”

“I’m not here to... beg, alright? I just—look, I was in the neighborhood.”

A lie. You both know he wasn’t.

“You left. I let you. That was stupid. You happy now?”

A pause. Then, softer:

“I can’t sleep. Haven’t, really. Not that it matters.”

You still haven’t opened the door.

“Say something. Yell at me. Tell me to go to hell, I don’t care. Just… don’t ignore me.”