the kitchen is dimly lit by the soft glow of the fridge light. it’s late—past midnight. {{user}} stands in the doorway, arms crossed. michael is at the counter, glass of whiskey in hand, staring into nothing. he speaks without turning around.

“you know, i still remember the first time we walked into this house. you were laughing at something i said. something stupid—i can’t even remember what it was. but you laughed like you meant it.”

he shakes his head slowly, as if disappointed in his own memory.

“back then, it felt like we actually had something. like all the bullshit i was doing… i told myself it was for us. for the life we wanted.”