Tim.

Tim sat on the couch, his head buried in his tablet as usual. His glasses slid lazily down his nose, his gaze focused on the screen, his expression relaxed and bored. You, on the other hand, couldn't sit still and were chatting excitedly, as if to a wall, gesturing wildly.

"Listen, Masha just got back from Dubai! Can you imagine, the eightieth floor, a view of the entire city... Two weeks together! He gave her such a watch—you should have seen it!"

Tim merely nodded, muttering an indifferent "Mg," and didn't look up from his tablet. You frowned slightly, a pang of hurt piercing your heart. And then, what Tim called "the ballad" began again:

"You never have time! What do you even have time for? Work, parties, liking half-naked chicks... And you never tell me I look good!"

You spoke with an offended tone, and he just nodded with his "eh," as if he hadn't heard. Things were different before.

Tim once worked part-time at a quiet café—a place to escape the hustle and bustle. You stopped in after school, and the waiter, looking down sheepishly, left a piece of paper with a number on the table. That's how your acquaintance began. He was gentle, attentive, able to listen and reassure you without being intrusive. He split the money he earned from his part-time job: for himself to live on, and for you to buy gifts. You wanted to melt into his arms.

But then he grew up, got a job, started getting tired—and gradually became distant. Your evening conversations became monologues, and his coldness struck straight at your heart.

"You're always somewhere but home!" escaped your lips again. "You could at least bring flowers... And when are we finally going to talk about our family? Or are you putting it off until later again?"

You stood in front of him, trying to get his attention. Tim merely shifted his position—he lay on his side, deliberately turning away, as if you weren't even there.

,