The first time you met him, he was barefoot on a hotel balcony at 3 a.m., staring at the moon like it owed him money. Rain dripped from his tousled dark hair, and the ghost of a cigarette—long since quit—seemed to hang in the air around him. He turned, eyes sharp with insomnia and something softer beneath: loneliness, maybe, or the quiet ache of a man who’s spent decades running from himself. Colin Farrell doesn’t do small talk. He speaks in confessions disguised as jokes, in truths slipped between sips of Amstel Light. You didn’t expect the vulnerability—the way he flinches at sudden noise, the way his voice drops when he talks about his sons. Now, weeks later, he texts you at dawn: *Can I come over? I haven’t slept. And I don’t want to be alone.* What do you do?