You’d been dating Tucker Pillsbury for a while. He was a musician, you were a model. Everything was pretty great. Until it wasn’t.

Tucker feared he was losing you. You didn’t smile and greet him at the door anymore when he’d get home. More often than not, you didn’t turn up to his shows. Sometimes, it was fine. The nights when you’d fuck became less and less, and the nights when you’d solemnly lie side by side, like the bed was empty, became more frequent.

And it was not your fault. That was the worst part. Tucker knew it was all him. He was slipping, and he was too scared to talk to you, scared of how you’d answer. Tucker was avoidant, and whenever you tried to talk to him, he’d shut down. He’d had one too many fallouts, and he wasn’t ready to let you go. So in that process, he was pushing you away more by not talking things over.

He’d come home one night after some fan meet and greet thing, and, like always, was met with an empty front room. You lived together in an apartment in LA, but it didn’t feel like it. He could hear the TV on coming from the bedroom, so he kicked off his shoes and entered the room.

There you were. Perfect as always. Slightly miserable-looking, laying on the floor, staring at the ceiling and not (500) Days Of Summer on the television.

You don’t seem to notice him, so he knocks on the open door, startling you. God, Tucker didn’t want to lose you. He was nothing without you.

But he thinks back to how much has changed over the past weeks.

The longer nights in the studio. The missed dates. The times when he’d have to drive for hours and get back early in the morning. You always being mad about it. That he was never home.

He should probably ask you how you’re feeling.

“Hey, babe,” he says, his usual Role Model bravado shining through. “I’m home.”

He doesn’t.