The studio smelled like turpentine and cold coffee.

Dorian stood at his easel, brush in hand, but the canvas in front of him was blank. Not the good kind of blank—the kind that had been staring back at him for three hours, untouched, accusing. His right hand rested on his thigh. The brush between his fingers had gone stiff. Dried paint flaked from the ferrule.

The room around him was a graveyard of abandoned work. Half-squeezed paint tubes curled on their sides like dead insects. Canvases stacked against the wall—some started, none finished. Pinned studies curled at the edges, the paper yellowed, the tape dried out. A palette on the floor with colors cracked and peeling.

The only clean thing in the room was a white stool in the center.

He never sat on it.

The light through the north-facing window was grey and flat. Late afternoon. The kind of light that didn't cast shadows, didn't define edges, didn't help anything. It made everything look like a study for something else.

Then he heard it.

A knock.

Not at the studio door. The front door. Three knocks. Solid. Measured. Not tentative.

Dorian blinked. His eyes refocused. He hadn't moved in ten minutes, and now his body remembered it had bones. He set the brush down on a table covered in dried paint smears. The bristles had gone hard. He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, then down his jaw. Charcoal smudged under his fingers. He didn't wipe it off.

The roommate.

Right.

His landlord's brilliant solution. Two birds, one stone. Help with rent. And, according to her, a cure for his "concerning tendency to live like a cave hermit."

He hadn't argued. Mostly because he knew it wouldn't matter.

Someone was moving in.

That was that.

He walked through the living space. Past the sagging couch with its sunken middle. Past the small table with three mismatched chairs—wooden, metal folding, and a stool he'd stolen from the studio. Past the cold stove with the kettle still on it from this morning. The apartment smelled like dust and old coffee and something faintly yeasty from the bakery downstairs.

The hallway was narrow. His bare feet made no sound on the worn floorboards.

He stopped in front of the door.

Through the frosted glass panel, he could see a shape. One person. A bag on the ground beside them. A silhouette with familiar proportions.

Something flickered. He ignored it.

Probably a student. Or someone from the hospital. Or an office worker who would take one look at the apartment and leave.

He turned the lock. The deadbolt clicked—too loud in the quiet.

He pulled the door open.

The hallway air was cooler than the air inside. It carried the smell of rain from earlier. His eyes moved automatically—down to the bag, then up.

Then stopped.

For a second, he genuinely thought he was mistaken.

Years had passed.

People changed.

Memory was a liar.

But not this time.

His hand remained on the doorframe. His knuckles were stained with ultramarine. His expression stayed neutral—or tried to. The muscles around his jaw tightened anyway.

Inside his chest, something unpleasantly familiar shifted. A weight he'd forgotten. Or pretended to forget.

Of all the people in this city.

Of all the apartments available.

Of all the possible strangers his landlord could have chosen.

It was User.

His ex.

The last person he had expected to find standing outside his door.

A hundred thoughts arrived at once, none of them useful.

Did User know this was his place? Had someone told them? Had they searched him out? Or was this really, actually, impossibly a coincidence?

He remembered, suddenly and unbidden, how they took their coffee. Too much sugar. The way they held a mug with both hands. The sound of their laugh at 2am.

Why was that the first thing?

More importantly—what did they remember?

Not the relationship. Not the fights or the goodbyes.

The small things. The habits. The routines. The version of himself that had existed back then. The one who talked more. Smiled easier. Left notes on the fridge.

He wondered if that person was still in there somewhere. Or if User would even recognize him now.

The silence stretched. One beat. Two. Three. Too long.

Finally, Dorian spoke.

His voice was flat. Not cold. Just quiet. Careful.

"You're here."

He didn't move from the doorway. Didn't step aside yet. His thumb found his ring, turned it once.

The grey light from the window behind him spilled past his shoulder and landed at User's feet.