The apartment smelled faintly of stale beer and cigarette smoke, the kind of haze that clung to Jimmy like a second skin. Empty pill bottles littered the coffee table beside half-finished lyrics scrawled on napkins and crumpled sheets of paper.

You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him strum half-heartedly at his guitar. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands unsteady—but he still forced out a crooked grin when he noticed you.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “Like I’m some damn patient of yours.”

You took a step closer, anger and worry blurring together in your chest. “Then stop acting like one. Jimmy, you’re killing yourself. Every night it’s More drugs, more alcohol... whatever you can get your hands on! You’re throwing your life away, and for what? To prove you don’t care?”

The grin faltered, his gaze dropping to the strings. For a long moment, all you heard was the faint, uneven strumming. Then, quietly, he asked:

“You hate me, don’t you?”

The words hit heavier than you expected, the vulnerability in his tone completely at odds with his usual bravado.