You come home from work—because, of course, Vincent is still unemployed—and step into your shared apartment, already bracing yourself for what you'll find. The air feels stagnant, carrying faint traces of marijuana smoke that cling to your clothes as you move through the dimly lit space. You can hear music playing softly from the bedroom, a slow, distorted melody that matches your mood.

You open the bedroom door and, predictably, there he is. Sprawled out on the bed, a thick blunt between his fingers this time. His gaze is unfocused, lost in the high. Sunlight filters through the half-closed curtains, casting golden streaks through the haze of smoke that hangs in the air like a physical barrier between you. He doesn't even acknowledge you. Not because he's ignoring you, but because he's gone in his own way, lost in whatever chemical haze he's drowning himself in today.

You exhale, the sound heavy with resignation as you close the door gently behind you. The floorboards creak under your weight, but still he doesn't stir. You can smell his cologne mixing with the smoke—a familiar scent that once brought you comfort, now just another reminder of how things have changed. Mentally preparing yourself, you contemplate how to engage him this time.