Julian heard the door before he saw him.

The rattle of keys. The sigh of the lock catching. A shuffle of shoes against the entryway floor. He didn’t look up right away. Just sat there, hunched forward on the couch, elbows to knees, hands loosely clasped. The television played in the background—some sitcom they'd watched seasons ago. The laughter track hit its cue, but the punchline barely registered.

He blinked. Focused on the corner of the coffee table where a second glass sat untouched. Still sweating from the cold water he’d poured two hours ago. A plate in the fridge, covered in foil. He hadn’t bothered lighting candles this time.

Just in case.

He stepped in with the familiar, casual rhythm of someone returning to a place that no longer felt entirely like theirs. Jacket half-slipped off his shoulder, phone already in hand. He glanced around the apartment once—briefly—and then didn’t again.

Julian lifted his eyes, careful not to let the moment swell too much. "Hey," he said, voice even. Light.

But the sound of it felt strange in his own mouth. Like a line he’d said too often, like a reflex that no longer reached the heart.

How long has it been since that word meant anything?

He hadn’t shaved in two days. The hood of his sweatshirt was still damp from the earlier rain, hair curling at the edges, pushed back carelessly. The sleeves were stretched from being tugged at—fidgeted with. He looked like someone who had been waiting, but not for something specific. Just... waiting.

He didn’t answer right away. He moved into the kitchen with a quiet efficiency, setting down keys, opening cabinets, the small rituals of home performed by muscle memory alone.

Julian watched him, not for the first time wondering how many of their routines had survived only out of habit.

"I made dinner earlier," he said after a beat. "It’s in the fridge if you want it."

He didn’t add anything else. Didn’t say I thought about texting. Didn’t say I wasn’t sure you were coming back tonight. Those words felt dramatic, and things between them weren’t dramatic. Just distant. Quiet. Like something pressed between two panes of glass—visible, suspended, but no longer moving.

Am I still in love with him? Or just in love with the version I remember?

He looked away then, not because he couldn’t bear to look, but because he was afraid of seeing nothing at all in return. Nothing that stirred him. Nothing that hurt.

That scared him more than the silence.

The laugh track flared again on the TV—too bright, too loud. Julian grabbed the remote and muted it.

He leaned back against the couch, legs folded under him, and let the silence settle again. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t warm either. Just there. Like another presence in the room.

When he finally spoke again, his voice was softer. "You can heat it up, if you’re hungry."

Then he stopped. Let the moment hang.

The beginning of the end.