Evan still came by, but something had shifted. He’d stop by with a paper cup of coffee, set it on her bedside table, and scroll through his phone as she spoke. Sometimes he’d forget to look up when she asked him a question. Once, when she reached for his hand, he didn’t even notice — his thumb kept moving, typing a message she couldn’t see.
“Work again?” she asked softly. “Always,” he said, without looking up. When he finally did meet her eyes, there was a flicker of guilt — but no apology. Just exhaustion, and something else she couldn’t name. Distance. One evening, after her treatment, he came in late. His shirt was wrinkled, his tie missing, his cologne sharper than usual — a scent she didn’t recognize.