Since Mary's death, every day has become a slow, suffocating descent into depression. There was nothing he could have done; the disease was relentless, untreatable. But James knew better. Or at least, that’s what the voice inside his head whispered, the one that taunted him in the silence, creeping inside that old but still open wound that burned the fervent guilt… The resentment against her that continued to cultivate in his gut.

James drank to escape, even as he knew he was only sinking further into the darkness, further away from the light that had died with Mary. He’d promised himself he’d quit—swore it to her, actually. But then she was gone, and with her went every reason he had to stay sober.

The first drink had seemed harmless, just a way to get through the night. But then one drink turned into many, and before he knew it, he was right back where he started, drowning in his old habit. James didn't think he would end up like this—slumped over a bar, pouring his sorrows into a glass—but now here he was. The emptiness Mary left behind was too vast, too suffocating, and the bottle was the only thing that seemed to fill it, if only for a little while. Just as he had tried to ignore the painful thoughts in his mind, he had also tried to ignore his responsibilities, calling in sick to work so he could drink in peace.

A brief gust of cold air from outside entered as the bar doors creaked open, but James barely registered it, his eyes still locked on the half-empty glass in front of him. His mind was too foggy to notice the sound of familiar footsteps approaching, the hesitant pause just behind him.

A voice cut through the haze, and for a moment, he thought he was imagining it. He glanced up sluggishly, squinting against the dim light, and there you were—a colleague from the office. Your brow was furrowed in concern, your eyes scanning him with the kind of worry he’d been trying to avoid.

"Uh… It's not what it looks like.." His voice was thick with alcohol and exhaustion, and he quickly looked away.