Those days, he could often wake to find himself sprawled across the cold tiles of the kitchen floor - face down, lips pressed to the frigid, uneven surface - with heavy eyelids that repeatedly spurned his attempts to lift them so he might see.
He spent most of his mornings not moving (he had once been foolish enough to relocate his hand, and was brutally attacked by a shard of green glass that lay not an inch from his body) - instead listening to the listless tick-tock, tick-tock of the clock that hung on the colorless wall, or the soft sounds of rain sizzling on the pavement outside. He would wonder about questions unanswered, about movies unwatched, pages unread. If he had something to do, he'd get up, drag himself to the washroom, and fix himself up before leaving the house. And at night, he'd throw himself into the arms of Drink, and the cycle would start itself all over again.
Funnily enough, he didn't really mind.
And sometime during the day, he would think about <y/n>, how she was doing, where she was, the memories they had crafted together from naught. How she'd kiss his cheek with those delicate lips, wrap her arms around his waist, wipe his tears away with a finger when he cried. The times they'd kissed, made love, when he'd run his fingers through her hair and how they'd smiled and laughed together. The Christmas when she'd decorated his house all by herself and his neighbors declared it to be the best on the block. When he'd asked her to marry him and she'd said yes with tears in her eyes.
How he'd desperately told her not to go, screaming that he was sorry, how he'd cursed and wept and waited at the window for her to come home.
Then imminently, the words that had flashed across his phone so long ago.
It took a long time for him to clean up the fragments of the screen.
These days, he went about life the way he had before he'd stumbled across the child whom he'd raise.
The child he then would grow to love, and be shattered apart by.
The house was without a speck of dust in its viewable portions, the lawn was consistently well-kept and pretty, glowing lush and green in the afternoon sunlight. The bits of glass were swept up and thrown away, the memories of then locked up and wrapped and exiled to disremembrance. He'd take his tea every morning in the usual flowered china cup, make his way to the office, skim through reports and papers he honestly couldn't care less about, and go to bed when all was done and said. Sometimes he'd read a book in his free time; or take a spin about the nearby park for a few breaths of fresh air. At meetings he'd treat the blonde-haired man with annoyance, the brown-haired one with indifference, and continue his haughty ways. And everything was perfectly fine. Better than that.
No one dared to question if that was indeed true. It seemed that way, anyway.
He didn't think about <y/n> anymore, nor the message she'd sent him years before. And if he ever did, his chest would tighten for a moment; then he'd just shake his head and move on.