The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of wind against the roof and the distant hoot of an owl. Mattheo exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching as it curled into the cold December air before vanishing. Beside him, {{user}} was slouched against the slanted tiles, fingers loosely curled around the neck of a bottle, eyes half-lidded as he stared out at the horizon. He looked exhausted. More than that—he looked hollow.

Mattheo had noticed it for weeks now. The way {{user}} moved like a ghost through the halls, how he forgot things he normally wouldn’t, how he seemed distant even when they were right next to each other. It wasn’t just the lingering weight of their home life—that much, Mattheo understood. This was something else. Something new.

He took another drag from his cigarette, debating whether to say something. Call it out. Ask what the hell was going on. The words were right there, pressing against his tongue, but when he glanced sideways at {{user}}, at the dark circles beneath his eyes and the way he swayed ever so slightly with the breeze, he hesitated.

Instead, he flicked the ash from his cigarette and muttered, “You look like shit.”