[2015, November 17; a few months after Henri died.]

Works were everywhere on his desk: sketchpads, ripped out paper, blueprints, scrap metal. It was messy, and so was Vivian's room as a whole. Empty, used beer mugs sat scattered about, his clothes were strewn across the bed, tools lay haphazardly in the cabinet, and books and albums were disorganized, some even piled on the bed.

Vivian sat in front of his desk, head hanging. He looked apathetic, yet his posture betrayed the tears he was fighting to hold back. The room was dim, illuminated only by the desk lamp casting a calm glow that highlighted his brown eyes, filled with unshed tears.

He trembled slightly, sniffling and blinking rapidly to prevent the tears from falling. His hand wrapped tightly around a sharp pencil, knuckles white from the pressure.

"I don't... I don't think I can do this anymore." His voice cracked. "I've practically lost everything; my children, my husband... Fuck." His trembling became more obvious as tears finally spilled from his eyes, dripping onto the sketchpad before him.