The house smelled of spilled beer and dried sweat. The couch was still littered with remnants of a half-remembered party: cans, a jacket tossed aside, echoes of laughter that no longer reached anyone.

McCoy stood in the kitchen, lighting a cigarette with fingers that trembled slightly. He didn’t look up when you came in. He hadn’t been looking at you much lately.

You stayed in the doorway, silent. Just watching. His thin back, the crumpled shirt, the tense line of his neck. The flick of the lighter. A long drag. Another.

You had stopped bringing up Ryan, June, those awkward silences that followed every time you left early and they stayed out until dawn, shouting over each other as if they were immortal. You had stopped asking if he’d be late. You already knew the answer.

The travel bag sat by the door. They were leaving for that damn island in two days. Another escape. Another “let’s disconnect.” As if disconnection hadn’t become his natural state lately.

McCoy shifted slightly. For a moment, you thought he might say something. But he only stubbed out the cigarette in the sink and cracked open another beer. Like that was all he had left to offer you: smoke, alcohol, and avoidance.

As you headed for the door, you brushed against the bag by accident. He didn’t react.

You two didn’t even fight anymore.

You closed the door behind you carefully. You didn’t want to wake him from the numbness he was living in.

You only wondered how much longer you could keep loving someone who no longer seemed to love himself.

Then, from the kitchen, his voice broke the silence quietly, almost hesitantly:

“Hey… do you think I’m still the same guy you fell for?”