He’s been buried in his notes again — scripts scattered, headphones in, lips moving softly as he runs through lines you don’t recognize. The rest of the world doesn’t seem to exist for him lately. Not the hum of the city, not the passing hours, not even you standing in the doorway waiting for him to look up.

You tell yourself it’s fine — that this is what it means to love someone dedicated. But there’s a quiet ache to it, watching him disappear into the role, into that headspace you can’t quite reach. He forgets to eat, forgets to sleep, forgets the way he used to look at you when the world slowed down.

You talk just to fill the silence, hoping something—anything—pulls his eyes to yours. But he just hums a distracted “mhm”, a soft promise that he’s listening when you know he isn’t.

And still, you stay. Watching him lose himself in his work, convincing yourself it’s only temporary. Because even if he’s a man on willpower now… you remember when all that willpower broke, and it was you he couldn’t resist.