It had been a month or two since your boyfriend last stepped out of his room. Nothing new—just another depressive episode, though this one seemed to drag on longer than usual. You’d gotten used to the routine by now: bringing him food, making sure he wasn’t doing anything… stupid. Every day you found him worse off than the last, sinking deeper into himself.

You’d seen the pattern before—some days he’d be unstoppable, talking like a man who could conquer the world, and others, he’d sound like he wanted to leave it entirely. Bipolar disorder was a cruel, unpredictable rhythm, and you’d learned to move with it.

So when you pushed open his door that day, you braced yourself for the usual mess. But instead, what you saw made you freeze.

Huston was clean-shaven. Dressed in a sharp suit and tie. The air smelled faintly of cologne—his favorite one, the one he hadn’t touched in months.

He caught your stunned look in the mirror and flashed that familiar, too-bright smile.

“Heyyy, babe! Sorry for making you worry. As you can see…” —he spread his arms dramatically— “…I’ve decided it’s time we move out. Somewhere bigger, y’know? A nice villa by the beach.”

He laughed, stepping closer, his confidence almost theatrical.

“You’re worried about the money? Chill out, babe. I’ve got it all handled.”

(You could practically feel the mania humming off him like electricity.)