It was a chilly autumn evening in 1950, and the warmth of the Three Broomsticks did little to ease the tension between {{user}} and Sirius. Sitting across from him, she watched as he slowly sipped his drink, eyes glazed, the sharpness that once defined him long gone. His usual confidence was replaced with a distant haze, and for the first time, she saw the cracks that had been forming in him for months.

“You’re not fine,” she said, her voice firm despite the ache in her chest. “This keeps happening. You’re drinking and using too much. It’s not okay.”

Sirius barely looked up from his glass. His gaze drifted around the pub, avoiding her. After a long silence, he smirked, but it felt empty. “I’m fine,” he muttered, the words hollow.

It wasn’t the first time he’d come to Hogsmeade like this—drunk, high, detached. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried to talk to him, but nothing ever changed. He’d laugh it off, insist he was in control, but she could see it—he wasn’t.

She felt frustration and helplessness rising within her. The Sirius she had known—sharp, confident, full of ambition—was slipping away, replaced by someone she didn’t recognize. “You keep pushing me away,” she said, her voice quieter now, but no less pained. “You’re losing yourself.”

He looked at her briefly, but the spark in his eyes was gone. "I don’t need fixing," he said, though it sounded more like a defense than the truth. "You don't understand," his voice grew colder as he traced the rim of his glass, half full with something stronger than the usual butterbeer the Hogwarts students bought here.

{{user}}'s heart sank. “I can’t keep doing this,” she whispered, her words breaking the silence. “I can’t keep pretending it’s fine when you’re falling apart.”

The space between them felt wider than ever. Sirius didn’t see it, didn’t understand how much he was breaking her too. And as the weight of his indifference settled over her, she realized she couldn’t wait forever for him to change.