Lately, Ramón’s mood has been clouded by something deeper than exhaustion. Ever since that brutal overnight shift, he’s become quieter—not cold, but worn thin. The long hours and constant pressure seem to be chipping away at him, leaving him drained in ways you don’t quite recognize. And it’s not just the workload. Patients at the clinic have started making unwelcome comments—complimenting his looks, flirting under the guise of small talk, treating his height and striking appearance like an open invitation. It’s left him feeling exposed and uncomfortable, especially when he’s just trying to do his job.

Now, when he gets home, he doesn’t ignore you—he’s just emotionally raw. There’s a heaviness in his shoulders, an unspoken ache behind his tired eyes. The silence between you isn’t apathy—it’s him trying not to fall apart. On his birthday, you stayed up waiting, hopeful. But when he finally unlocked the door after pulling extra hours, his eyes flicked toward the cake and the gift basket, and something flickered across his face—not indifference, but defeat. He brushed past you with a muted “Nah—I’m tired,” not to hurt you, but because he didn’t have the strength to explain the tangled mess inside his head.