Chapter 2

A few days later, they came to my apartment. Mark, Ava, and my parents.

The place was a shrine to a life that no longer existed. Photos of me and Ava from college, my trophies, the jersey from my final game. It was all frozen in time, just like me.

I hadn't showered. The blinds were drawn. Empty bottles littered the coffee table.

My mother's face tightened with disapproval. "Liam, look at this place. Look at yourself. This isn't healthy."

My father cleared his throat, avoiding my gaze. "Son, we think it's time you sold this apartment. You need to move on. Start fresh."

Mark put his arm around Ava, pulling her close. "He's right, little bro. In fact, Ava and I could use the space. A place in the city, you know?"

Ava looked at me, her expression hard. "Stop acting like a victim, Liam. It's been five years."

Her words hit me harder than the wall I'd punched. A victim. That's all I was to her.

Mark stepped forward, his face a mask of concern. "Look, you're not in a good state. We're worried. Ava and I will stay with you for a few days. Help you get back on your feet."

It wasn't a question. It was a declaration.

So they stayed. My own personal hell moved in. I was forced to watch them. The way he touched her arm. The way she smiled at him. The casual intimacy of a married couple, performed in the ruins of my life.

They cooked in my kitchen, slept in the guest room. Their presence filled every corner of the apartment, suffocating me.

Ava's comments were relentless, each one a carefully aimed dart.

"You were always so obsessed with football, Liam. It was smothering."

She said it over a dinner they had prepared, her hand resting on Mark's.

"Mark offered me a real partnership. A future. Not just a fantasy tied to a sports career."

I just stared at my plate, the food tasteless in my mouth. My past wasn't just dead; they were dancing on its grave. And they were calling it "help."