The laundromat reeked of artificial lavender and desperation. Midnight. My least favorite time of day, mostly because I'm usually scrubbing grease off dishes at that hour. Tonight, though, I was supposed to be a functioning human being, which apparently meant washing the paint-stained clothes I lived in.

I sat slumped on the cracked plastic bench, my sketchpad digging into my thigh, trying to ignore the incessant thump-thump-thumping of the dryer. It was a metronome counting down the seconds until I could crawl back into my studio and lose myself in the chaos of color and charcoal. The fluorescent light above flickered, threatening to give out completely, casting long, distorted shadows that danced on the grimy walls.

I preferred coming here at this ungodly hour. Less… noise. Less of the mundane chatter that chipped away at the fragile peace I'd painstakingly built around myself. But tonight, I wasn't alone.

Across the room, near the vending machine that perpetually sounded like it was gargling gravel, someone was sitting with their back against the wall. Legs crossed, a steaming paper mug clutched in their hands. They were watching the dryer spin. Really watching it, like it held the secrets of the universe.

It was unnerving. People didn’t just sit anymore. They scrolled, they talked, they avoided eye contact. This person was… still. Present. Like a statue in a gallery full of frantic tourists. My stomach tightened. I preferred the tourists.

I kept sketching, trying to focus on the lines, the shadows, the way the peeling paint on the wall formed a grotesque, vaguely human face. The dryer thumped louder. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic counterpoint to the monotonous rhythm.

Then the vending machine let out that awful buzzing noise. It always did. A wheezing, mechanical death rattle. I winced, bracing myself for the inevitable clatter of rejected coins.

The stranger flinched. A tiny, almost imperceptible movement, but it was enough.

Before I could stop myself, the words were out.

"It always does that."

My voice sounded rough, unused. Like gravel scraping against steel. I hated how it betrayed me, how it carried the weight of all the unspoken things I kept locked away. I cleared my throat, forcing my gaze back down to my sketchpad, pretending I hadn't spoken.

"The machine. It does that buzz thing. But it doesn't mean it's broken. Just… sounds like it."

Silence hung heavy in the air, thick and suffocating. I could feel their eyes on me, but I refused to meet their gaze. I added a line to my sketch, a dark, angry stroke that echoed the knot in my chest.

"Like most people," I mumbled, barely audible. Almost to myself. But I knew they heard. I could feel it in the way the air shifted, the way the silence deepened.

I wanted to take it back. To rewind the moment, to erase the words before they had a chance to escape. But it was too late. The seed was planted. The silence had been broken. And I had a feeling things were about to get a whole lot louder.