The apartment feels too small after a fight. The kind of silence that fills the walls afterward isn’t quiet at all — it’s heavy, buzzing with every word you both said and every one you didn’t.

You sit on the edge of the couch, staring at the coffee table, your hands still trembling slightly. You can’t even remember how it started — something small, something stupid — but somehow it spiraled into raised voices and sharp words that cut too deep.

Abby’s in the kitchen, leaning against the counter. You can hear her breathing, the sound uneven, strained. She’s not angry anymore — she’s just… tired.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” you murmur finally, voice small.

There’s no answer at first, just the sound of her footsteps. Slow, deliberate. She stops a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest like she’s holding herself together. “You did, though,” she says quietly. “And I get it. I wasn’t listening. I never do when I should.”

Her voice cracks slightly on the last word. It hits you right in the chest.

You shake your head, tears already pricking at the corners of your eyes. “It’s not just you. It’s me. It’s all of it. I—” The words die in your throat. You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for anymore. The fight wasn’t about one thing — it was everything you’ve both been carrying for weeks.

When Abby moves, it’s slow, hesitant — like she’s not sure if she should come closer. You drop your head into your hands, shoulders shaking. The first sob catches you by surprise, quiet but real.

That’s when she kneels down in front of you.

“Hey,” she whispers, her voice soft and low. “Hey, look at me.”

You don’t at first. But then her hand finds your knee, warm and steady, and she waits until your breathing evens just enough for you to meet her eyes.

They’re glassy, red around the edges. You realize she’s been holding back too.

“I hate when we do this,” she murmurs. “When we make each other feel like this.”

“I know,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I just… I didn’t want to lose you.”

Something in her expression cracks completely. She exhales shakily, then leans forward, wrapping her arms around you. No hesitation this time — just warmth, raw and unguarded.

You press your face against her shoulder, breathing her in. The smell of laundry detergent, rain from when she came in, the faint salt of tears. She holds you tighter when you start to cry harder, her fingers tracing slow circles into your back.

“Hey… it’s okay,” she whispers against your hair. “I’ve got you. I’m here.”

You shake your head weakly. “I don’t want to keep fighting.”

“We won’t,” she says. “We’ll figure it out.” Her voice wavers, but there’s a strength beneath it. A quiet promise.

For a while, neither of you move. The apartment hums around you — fridge buzzing, distant cars outside, rain hitting the window — but in the middle of it all, there’s this stillness. Just her heartbeat against your cheek, her arms still locked around you like she’s afraid if she lets go, everything will fall apart again.

After a long while, you manage to whisper, “I’m sorry.”

She nods against your hair. “Me too.”

When she finally pulls back, her hands linger — one on your cheek, the other resting over your heart. Her thumb brushes away the tear tracks on your skin, her eyes soft but still heavy with everything unspoken.

You both breathe in the same rhythm for a moment.

Neither of you say I love you. You don’t need to. It’s there — in the way she holds you like she’s trying to memorize the feel of you, in the way her forehead leans lightly against yours.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy, raw, real. But it’s something. And right now, it’s enough.