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THE MASK BEGINS TO FALL (AGAIN)

A fter a couple of weeks, something changes.

At first, I try to ignore the shift. I tell myself that everyone has off days, moments where they just need to recharge. But this feels different. Something in Timmy has switched off, and I can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened. One moment, we’re making plans for hikes, art exhibits, and lazy afternoons at the beach, and the next, it’s as if a curtain has fallen between us and the outside world.

“I don’t feel like doing that today,” he mutters when I suggest going out for coffee, his voice flat, eyes glazed as he flips through movie options on the TV.

“Maybe next week,” he mumbles when I bring up a trail we’d been excited about for weeks.

It’s not just that he doesn’t want to go—it’s the sudden apathy, the way every idea seems like too much effort now. Every plan I float fizzles out before it even has a chance to form. There’s always a reason, a vague excuse:

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“I think I might be coming down with something. ”

“Matty’s expecting us to hang out later.”

“I have a sore tummy.”

“I had a nightmare.”

And so we stay, trapped inside Matty’s apartment like caged animals.

I start to feel the walls closing in. “I feel trapped in here,” I blurt out one day. I try to keep my voice steady, but the words wobble on the edge of frustration. I don’t mean for them to sound accusatory, but I can’t hold it back anymore.

Timmy sighs, rubbing his temples. “It’s not like I want to feel like this,” he says, his voice defensive. “I just… I don’t know. I’m not up for it right now, okay?”

It feels like I’m talking to a stranger. Where’s the guy who bounced with excitement at the idea of exploring every corner of Sunset Cay? The guy who dragged me out of bed to whisk me off to show me around? He’s here physically, but emotionally, it feels like he’s slipped through my fingers.

In some ways, I tell myself, maybe this change isn’t such a bad thing. I can’t keep funding our outings—my savings are dwindling, and the constant shopping and dining out were never sustainable. But the silence is oppressive. There’s only so much greasy food cooking and movie-watching I can take before I start to feel like I’m losing my mind. Every suggestion I make to leave the apartment is met with resistance, and I can’t write in this cramped environment.

Timmy’s mattress is shoved in a corner in a room with no natural light, and when I try to work in the living room, Matty blasts YouTube videos about home-built machinery or bizarre DIY projects at max volume. It’s unbearable. The low drone of people explaining driveway leveling techniques grates on my nerves, and I find myself grinding my teeth as I try to concentrate on anything other than how much I want to scream.

Meanwhile, Timmy sinks further into lethargy. He sleeps in late, cocooned in blankets, only waking up when he feels like it—usually well past noon. When he does stir, it’s only to suggest we watch yet another movie, eat, or occasionally, have sex. He’s exhausted the catalog of streaming services, and the few new films he does find are interspersed with rewatching ones we’ve already seen. It drives me crazy. I’ve never understood the appeal of rewatching things, and now it’s become a point of tension.

“We literally just watched this a couple of weeks ago,” I say, exasperated, as he queues up a movie we’d already seen.

“Yeah, but it’s good,” he says, walking out to the balcony to light a cigarette. “You’ll like it more the second time.”

I groan quietly, but don’t fight him on it. Fighting takes energy I no longer have.

The hours blur together in an endless loop: wake up late, watch movies, cook, sometimes have sex, eat ice cream, he’ll smoke cigarettes, and then we’ll fall back asleep.

If I suggest going outside—taking a walk, getting some air—he continues to wave me off with excuses. But if I mention picking up alcohol, he perks up, suddenly willing to leave the apartment. I feel a flicker of bitterness at how easily the promise of booze shifts his mood.

The worst part is the resentment simmering just beneath the surface. I can feel it radiating off him, especially when I bring up doing something, anything, outside the apartment. His responses carry the weight of irritation, as if I’m nagging him simply by existing, by wanting more from this experience than just sitting around.

And so, the dynamic changes—slowly at first, but unmistakably. The man who used to be a whirlwind of energy, dragging me from one adventure to the next, now feels like a dead weight. It’s like he’s resigned himself to this dull existence, and I’m being dragged down with him.

I find myself walking on eggshells, carefully choosing my words so as not to trigger his frustration. But the frustration builds inside me instead, bubbling up like a slow-boiling pot. How did we end up here? How did I go from being head over heels for someone who felt like the love of my life, to feeling suffocated in a dimly lit apartment where the air is thick with cigarette smoke and disappointment?

I try to convince myself that it’s just a phase, that Timmy will snap out of it. But deep down, a voice whispers that maybe this is who he really is—a man who only thrives in the highs, but can’t sustain the everyday. And now that the initial rush has faded, we’re left with the truth.