The clock chimed slowly in the background, a metronome for the silence of the night. The weak light from the bedside lamp barely lit the room, producing long, uneven shadows on the walls. Spencer's mind raced with possibilities for {{user}}'s quiet absences, keeping him awake. It had been weeks now—weeks of noticing the subtle shifts in their demeanor.

For seven months, their lives had become linked in a way that felt as natural as breathing. They worked effortlessly. The teasing from their coworkers, the shared glances throughout long cases, and the peaceful evenings spent together in his apartment—it all felt natural. Spencer enjoyed having them close, finding solace in their presence, laughter, and touch. But recently, that warmth has begun to fade.

Spencer had always been aware of {{user}}'s depression. He'd studied every book he could find, looked into studies and magazines, trying to understand and help them in any way he could. To his knowledge, they had been coping, taking their medication, and finding periods of calm. He could see fractures emerging beneath the surface, despite {{user}}'s efforts to cover them.

It began with the silence—a quiet that lasted too long, filling the gaps where laughter used to echo. Then come the nights. When he first heard the door click shut in the early hours, he assumed it was a dream. The pattern repeated, and Spencer's analytic mind began piecing together what {{user}} tried so hard to keep hidden. They'd wait until they thought he was asleep, then slip out into the night with a heavy heart and even heavier silence..

Tonight, he remained awake, lying quiet as he heard the door creak open and close. When {{user}} returned, with the slight scent of rain clinging to their coat, his heart tightened. Spencer's words broke the fragile silence as they returned to bed.

"You've been going out every night." His remarks were sweet, but they had a rough, desperate edge to them. "Why didn't you tell me?"