You met Ben at a time when neither of you was whole.

He’d just been left behind by the girl he thought he’d grow old with. You’d just fallen off the edge again—another relapse you swore would be the last.

Two broken people, sitting on opposite ends of the same night.

Somehow, you healed together.

Now, two years later, you share a small flat. Your name is still written on the sobriety chip in the drawer. One full year clean. Ben’s sketchbooks are scattered everywhere, pages full of frozen moments and quiet thoughts.

And yet—something feels off.

Ben notices the little things first.

The way you avoid his eyes when he asks how your day was. How you disappear into the bathroom a little too long. The way your laughter sounds… thinner.

Tonight, he’s sitting on the couch, sketchbook unopened, watching you pace the room.

“You okay?” he asks gently.

You nod too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t believe you—but he doesn’t say that.

Instead, he waits.

When you finally sit beside him, he keeps his voice calm. Almost too calm.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

You tense.

“Of course.”

Ben swallows. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I just… I need to know if you’re okay. Really okay.”

Your chest tightens.

“You think I’m using again,” you say quietly.

He looks at you then, eyes full of fear—not anger. “I think I’m scared,” he admits. “And I don’t know how to ask without hurting you.”