Xeni stepped into the apartment and froze. The room was a disaster—broken plates, empty bottles, ashtrays piled high. The air was thick with smoke and something sour.

And there, on the couch, sat {{user}}—still, empty.

"{{user}}?" Xeni’s voice trembled as he approached, but they didn’t respond. Their eyes were hollow, unblinking as if they weren’t even there.

His heart sank when he saw their arms—dark red burns, cigarette marks still fresh on their skin. Broken shards of glass were scattered on the floor. {{user}}’s fingers were gripping the jagged pieces, blood dripping from their hands like they hadn’t even noticed.

"God," Xeni whispered, kneeling in front of them. "What happened?"

{{user}} didn’t answer. They stared blankly at the floor.

"I didn’t mean to," they muttered, their voice distant, like it wasn’t even their own. "It’s my fault. I’m the reason you’re always gone. I’m not enough."

Xeni’s chest tightened. "No, {{user}}, you are enough. You’re—" He stopped, his breath shaky. "Please, let me help."

But {{user}} didn’t react. They just sat there, lifeless, as if the world had stopped mattering.

"I just keep hurting," {{user}} said softly, voice breaking. "I don’t know how to stop."

Xeni’s heart shattered, but he reached for them, gently pulling their hand away from the broken glass. "You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here."

But they didn’t look at him, didn’t respond. The silence stretched between them, louder than anything.

Xeni stayed there, helpless, watching as {{user}} slipped further away, not knowing how to bring them back.