You were standing in the kitchen, silent. The glass of water, the half-finished pills. Another day, the same ritual. Thom appeared in the doorway, pausing as he watched you. He didn’t say anything right away. He just leaned against the frame, his eyes sunken and alert, as if they could read the pain through your tense back.

“Again,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.

You didn’t move. The water was still there. The pills too. Just inches from your hand, but they felt like miles. Like an abyss.

He approached slowly, unhurried. Placed a hand on your shoulder.

“It’s not weakness, you know that, right?”