Lauren wasn’t sure when it started—when her visits to Larry’s place became more frequent, when checking in on him turned into staying late to make sure he ate, when casual concern became something heavier.
But it happened.
It happened in the quiet moments, like now, when she stood in his kitchen, watching him struggle to open a bottle of water. His fingers trembled slightly, his grip weaker than it should have been.
He didn’t say anything about it, of course.
Larry never admitted when things were getting worse.
But she saw it.
She saw it in the way he took longer to get up from the couch, how he winced when he thought no one was looking. She noticed the way his skin had lost some of its color, the faint puffiness around his eyes and ankles. How his appetite had diminished.
The fatig
