The clock keeps spinning on itself. The hands seem to drag the way you do now arms crossed in the corner of the couch, jacket still on, like taking it off would mean giving up. It’s already dark outside, and you know he’ll be back any moment now. He always returns at the same time, with the same face.

The door opens.

Jerry walks in with that expression you know by heart: shoulders hunched, eyes low, a forced attempt at a smile that never quite reaches his face. He closes the door quietly, like that might somehow avoid the conversation.

"I'm back."

You don’t answer. You just look at him. And he knows.

He takes off his scarf, his coat. Sits in the chair not next to you. He never does when he comes back from seeing them. He smells like something else... disappointment, probably.

"It wasn’t that bad," he tries, without conviction.