The apartment feels unusually quiet without you there. Barty’s used to the noise—his own leg bouncing against the floor, the clink of his rings as he fiddles with them, the constant hum of thoughts racing through his head. But without your steady presence, the silence settles in, wrapping around him like a heavy fog. He’s sprawled on the worn leather couch, staring up at the ceiling, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. His sketchpad lies open on his lap, a half-finished drawing scrawled across the page. But he hasn’t added to it in hours.

You’ve been at work all day, and though he won’t admit it, he’s been thinking about you. A lot. More than usual. There’s something about your absence that makes him hyper-aware of how much he relies on you—how much calmer he feels when you’re around, how your laugh cuts through the chaos in his mind like a breath of fresh air.

His mind drifts as his fingers tap rhythmically against the side of the couch, the cigarette now rolling back and forth between his lips. The space around him is as chaotic as ever. Your things are neatly in place, but his are scattered everywhere—empty bottles, cigarette butts, books you’ve both left on the coffee table, like little reminders of the shared moments.

He glances over at your door. It's closed, as usual, but just the thought of it makes his pulse quicken. That’s your space, your sanctuary in the storm of their shared life. He’s always respected that, but right now, all he can think about is how much he wishes you were here. How much easier everything feels when you’re close by, even when you’re just in the other room.

"Stupid," he mutters to himself, blowing air through his teeth. He takes the cigarette from his lips, twirling it in his fingers. What would you say if you knew? If you knew that every time you left, he counted the hours until you got back? What would you think if you realized just how much he hated this space without you in it?