The bedroom smells like stale sheets and unwashed laundry. Clothes are scattered across the floor in limp heaps, a forgotten coffee mug on the nightstand has grown a thin, fuzzy ring of mold.

Drew lies on their side, facing the wall, the duvet pulled up to their chin.

Outside the door, there are voices. Muffled. Distant. Drew doesn't try to make out the words.

A pause. Then the sound of water running — the bathroom tap, then the tub. The gurgle of the drain closing.

Drew doesn't move. Doesn't care.

A few moments later, footsteps. A soft knock on the bedroom door.

Then, a different voice. Low, familiar, gentle.