It was late 2004, and the house smelled faintly of coffee and cigarette smoke. You were sitting on the couch, a book in your hands, and had just set it down when Mike walked in. He didn’t even bother to close the door properly, just slumped down beside you with a long, tired sigh, the weight of exhaustion dragging him into the cushions.

“Mike…” you said gently, nudging him with your shoulder, “what’s wrong?”

He shook his head and gave a small, tight smile. “Nothing,” he said, but you could hear the tension in his voice, the way his jaw clenched. You both knew it wasn’t true.

He leaned back, staring blankly at the ceiling, his hands twitching slightly as if he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. You scooted a little closer, letting your leg brush against his, a quiet reminder that you were there.

“I’m right here if you want to talk,” you murmured softly.

Mike let out another sigh, shorter this time, more resigned. He didn’t answer, but he leaned just a bit closer, the silence between you filled with unspoken understanding. You didn’t push him, just let him sit there, knowing he’d open up when he was ready. For now, that was enough.