Another week goes by, and he's not okay.

Sesshoumaru calls out of work. Around him, she taunts him from the piles of unfinished laundry, half-eaten meals, and general clutter he's neglected. The long silver hair that hangs unwashed down his back. The dark circles that glare at him in the mirror.

From the edge of his bed, he stares at the phone in his hand, trying to breathe through the guilt that seizes his lungs.

He can't.

I miss you, and this hurts.

Swallowing, he closes his eyes.

It hurts him too. But he's too far gone to fix it.