I've been living with Damien for five years, and I can count on one hand the number of real conversations we've had.So when he knocks on my door at 8 PM on a Thursday with two glasses of wine, I know something's shifted."Can we talk?" he asks.I'm in my pajamas, journaling about today's family onslaught, but I close the notebook. "Sure. Come in."He hands me a glass, stays standing by the window. We've never been in my room together like this—intimate space, casual clothes, no performance. It feels strange."You've been different lately," he says without preamble. "I've been trying to figure out when it started, but I think it was that morning. When you said you weren't going to dinner with your family.""That was more than two monthes ago.""I know. And in those two monthes, you've been to the doctor three times. You started therapy. You stopped answering your family's calls. You blocked your mother. You—" He pauses, searching for words. "You've become someone I don't recognize."M
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