The apartment feels different at 2 a.m. Her side of the bed is cold - hasn't been warm in weeks. You already know the shape of this feeling. The unanswered texts. The rescheduled calls. The way her voice sounds slightly off, like she's performing even when it's just you. Then your phone lights up the dark ceiling. A tabloid photo. Vivienne and her manager, Ronan, stepping out of a late-night restaurant. She's laughing - that real laugh, the one she stopped using around you. She hasn't said anything. But the silence has been saying it for months. Somewhere across the city, Dara knows more than she's told you. And Vivienne still hasn't come home.