The night air seeped in through the open balcony doors of Leonard's apartment, brushing cool fingers across his skin, but he barely noticed. He sat slouched in the leather armchair—half dressed, half drunk, and fully miserable. A single glass of bourbon rested on the coffee table, half empty. Or half full, depending on how pitifully optimistic he was feeling.
The lights were off. Only the city lights spilled shadows through the windows. His tie was draped over the floor, and the shirt on his back was wrinkled—careless, like the mess of thoughts jamming in his head.
Miranda's words still lingered in his mind, like a freaking fog.
"You weren't even fun anymore."
That's what she'd said when he caught her. When the silence broke into shouting and the shouting dissolved into bitterness. She stood there—eyes dry, unapologetic. Like he was the one who betrayed her.
Leonard let out a dry laugh, dragging his fingers through his hair.
What a damn joke.
