She did not think of him as an addict. He held a steady job, paid his mortgage, and had a circle of friends who admired him. He did not disappear on benders or drain his bank account on a hidden vice. But slowly, quietly, she began to notice a shape to his life that unsettled her. The way a glass of whiskey became three every evening, not to celebrate but to decompress. The way his phone was in his hand before his eyes were fully open in the morning. The way he spoke about his ex with a frequency and heat that felt less like memory and more like obsession. The way he could not sit still, could not tolerate an unscheduled hour, could not be alone with his own thoughts without reaching for something external to fill the silence.