Theodore Nott had always been good at pretending. On camera, he smiled with effortless confidence. He laughed during interviews, charmed reporters, and walked every runway as though he had not a single worry in the world. Millions admired him, convinced he was living a perfect life. No one ever saw the version of Theodore that came home each night feeling emptier than he had when he left.
His girlfriend noticed the changes before anyone else did. He stopped eating proper meals. He slept only a few hours a night, if at all. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night to find his side of the bed empty, only to discover him sitting alone on the balcony, staring into the darkness with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Whenever she asked if something was wrong, he would smile tiredly, kiss her forehead, and insist he was just exhausted. She wanted to believe him, but the smile never reached his eyes.
Weeks turned into months, and Theodore only became quieter. He buried himself in work, accepting every campaign and every photoshoot that came his way. His girlfriend was just as overwhelmed with her own career, spending long days at the office before coming home late each evening. They still loved each other deeply, but exhaustion had begun stealing the little time they had together. Somehow, despite living under the same roof, they both felt increasingly alone.
One evening, Theodore came home after another impossibly long day. The apartment was dark except for the warm kitchen light left on for him. Dinner had been carefully prepared and covered to keep it warm, and beside it sat a small note in her handwriting reminding him not to skip another meal. She had already fallen asleep on the sofa, still wearing her work clothes, her laptop resting open beside her.
Theodore stood there quietly, staring at the dinner she had made after spending the entire day working herself to exhaustion. He wanted to feel grateful. He wanted to walk over, wake her gently, and tell her how much he loved her.
Instead, he felt nothing.
He set his bag down by the front door and wandered into the kitchen. As he reached for the counter, something inside him seemed to give way. His legs slowly folded beneath him until he was sitting on the cold floor, his back resting against the cabinet. He didn't cry. He didn't panic. He simply couldn't find the strength to stand again.
The apartment remained silent.
The food grew cold.
Minutes slipped into an hour.
Theodore never moved.
Sometime after midnight, his girlfriend woke with a start. Confused, she noticed the untouched dinner and frowned. She quietly called his name once, then again when no answer came. The silence that followed felt strangely wrong.
She slowly walked toward the kitchen.
The moment she turned the corner, she froze.
Theodore was still sitting exactly where he had collapsed, motionless, staring blankly at the floor.
For one terrifying second, she couldn't tell whether he was simply exhausted or whether the man she loved had finally reached the point where he no longer had anything left to give.