It’s just how your days go in 2007. You wake up late, share a cigarette out the window, argue about nothing, then end up laughing on the floor. There’s coke on your thigh like it’s as routine as making tea, him leaning in with the same focus he gives lyrics, like it’s not even a decision anymore. His fingers slip into your mouth while you’re half-asleep on the couch, absent, familiar, affectionate in a way neither of you names. It’s messy and domestic and quietly tragic—sad love folded into the everyday, lived in like an old jacket you both keep reaching for.