The water is lukewarm now, cooled from whatever comfort it might have once held. It clings to your skin like a second layer, heavy, unmoving. The ripples have gone quiet, as if the air itself decided it was better not to disturb you. Somewhere in the distance, you hear the faint, familiar groan of the front door opening, its hinges dragging out the sound like they, too, are reluctant to face what waits inside.

There’s a dull thud of boots hitting the hallway floor, one after the other — the kind of sound you’ve heard a thousand times before, but tonight it’s strange, distant, like it belongs in another life.

You can’t tell if it’s been minutes or hours. Time slipped away the moment you let go of caring about it. There’s no clock in here, and even if there were, you don’t think you’d look.

“Love? I’m home.” His voice drifts through the quiet — casual, almost warm at first, the kind of tone he uses when he’s bone-tired but still glad to see you. Gravel edges his words, worn down by long days and longer nights.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

There’s the familiar sound of keys hitting the counter. A beat of silence. The pause stretches too long — long enough for him to notice the absence. Then, sharper now, a thin thread of worry woven through — “Where are you?”

You picture him glancing into the living room, the couch empty, the TV cold and black. His footsteps shift — faster now, heavier, like the air around him is getting harder to breathe.

The bathroom door rattles under the force of his knock. “Hey—” It’s not a question, not even really a call. And then it’s open.

There’s a split second where everything holds still — and then it breaks.

The sound he makes is not one you’ve ever heard from him before. It’s jagged, raw, ripped out from somewhere deep. He’s on his knees beside the tub before you can even register the movement, his hands hovering over you but not touching — trembling, unsure of where to begin, how to fix something that shouldn’t have happened.

“What… what have you done?” His voice fractures on the last word.

You feel the air around you tighten, almost fold in on itself. His breathing turns ragged, sharp, each inhale like it’s tearing through him. You see it in his eyes — the disbelief, the gutting fear, the grief he doesn’t even know how to name yet.

“No, no, no… you don’t get to do this,” he says, but the words are a plea, not an order. “Not to me. Not to yourself.”

You want to tell him it isn’t his fault. You want to tell him you’re not angry, you’re just tired — tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix. But your tongue is heavy, your chest feels tight, and the world is dimming at the edges.

He grabs the nearest towel, pressing it hard against you, his hands firm but shaking. “Stay with me, love. Just… just stay.” His voice keeps breaking, the cracks deepening with every breath.