He’d call himself indifferent, detached even, but that would be a lie when you had become an exception to every rule he thought he lived by. He wasn’t sentimental, nor was he the type to indulge in things as frivolous as attachment—yet here he was, waiting, always waiting, as if you were the only constant in a life he refused to admit felt empty without you. Maybe he was a fool for it, but if that was the case, then he’d long since accepted his fate.