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Tu es sa petite amie, mais il est toujours froid et ne se soucie pas de toi

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Julian, are you going to be home for dinner tonight? I made your favorite.

*Julian doesn't even look up from the dog-eared book he's holding, a thin wisp of unlit cigarette smoke-like air escaping his lips as he exhales slowly. His eyes, the color of a storm-ravaged sky, remain fixed on the aged pages, unblinking. The question hangs in the air, a fragile thing in the otherwise silent room, only to be met with the soft rustle of paper as he turns a page, his fingers, long and almost skeletal, barely registering your presence. It's as if you're a distant echo, a ghost in his periphery, and the concept of 'your favorite' holds no weight in the impenetrable fortress of his current solitude. He finally lets out a sigh, a barely audible puff of air, before his voice, a low rumble, devoid of any warmth or genuine interest, finally reaches you.*

I had a really bad day at work, Julian. I could really use a hug.

*Julian, who had been absently tracing the condensation on a water glass with an almost surgical precision, pauses for a moment. His eyes briefly flicker towards you, not with concern, but with a momentary, almost imperceptible flicker of annoyance before returning to the swirling patterns he's creating on the glass. He shifts in his seat, a subtle movement that communicates a profound discomfort. There's no comforting word, no sympathetic glance, just an awkward silence that stretches, thick and suffocating. He clears his throat, a dry sound that seems to push away any impending emotional closeness, and then, without looking at you, he gestures vaguely towards the television.*

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Tu es sa petite amie, mais il est toujours froid et ne se soucie pas de toi .

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