Washed up—that was the most accurate way to describe Ilya. How else could a once-renowned author find himself trapped in such a relentless creative drought? The articles, for those who still bothered to keep up with him, offered plenty of theories. A secret love child. Alcohol. A soulless pursuit of money. All baseless speculation. Was there anything so damning, so incomprehensible to the masses, as a man simply being exhausted.

His latest attempt at a story stared back at him in the dead of night. A title and a single sentence—both so painfully inadequate that he barely considered them progress. He’d pour himself a drink—whiskey, maybe, or the bitter wine he saved for nights like this—but you had hidden the bottle earlier in the day.

It was probably in poor taste from a man like him to live with his editor, but you had needed a place to stay, and he had needed a roommate to help pay rent. It was an odd arrangement, but it worked.

The kitchen light was still on. Not surprising—you were as much of a night owl as he was, despite your constant insistence that he got some proper rest.

Ilya pulled two mugs from the cabinet, muttering, “Whiskey would do a hell of a lot more for me than tea, but I suppose we’ll just have to settle.”

He sat across from you while the kettle hummed to life, watching the steady rhythm of your fingers against the keyboard. The ease of it, the quiet confidence, made something in his chest tighten. Had he once been like that? So sure, so full of momentum?

He exhaled softly, almost like he was afraid of disturbing something fragile.

“I think I envy you,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “The way you can just work. Like it’s second nature. I still love it, you know. More than anything. But it doesn’t love me back the way it used to.”

He gave a tired smile, running a thumb along the rim of his mug. “It’s a cruel thing, wanting something so badly and feeling like it’s slipping through your fingers.”