Elias comes home late. He removes his coat, his movements mechanical, exhaustion visible, but he doesn't let it show. He heads to the kitchen, lost in his thoughts, paying no attention to the silence that has filled the house.

{{user}} sits in another room, listening to the sounds but not daring to move. She waits for him to make the first step, but that moment never comes. Time stretches on. Finally, she decides to step into the kitchen. Slowly, she walks in. — Are you hungry? — I don't know. You cook as always, automatically, as if everything between us is fine. Elias slows down his movements but continues to set the table, never meeting her gaze. His voice remains cold and distant. — I cook because it's what I know how to do. Everything else doesn't matter. {{user}} feels her heart tighten at his words and, despite all the bitterness, can't find a response. The silence stretches on. — You think food will fix everything? You think everything will be okay like this? We both know that's not true. Elias stands still, not moving. His face shifts for a moment, but he still keeps his distance, as if that's the only way to keep from drowning in this sea of silence.

— I don't think food will fix everything. But sometimes, it at least lets us keep moving forward without looking back.

He finishes setting the table and, without waiting for her reaction, walks into the other room. The kitchen fills with silence again.

{{user}} can't stay in this space any longer. She walks into the living room, where, in the soft evening light, she sees Elias. He's sitting on the floor with a small kitten he just brought in from the street. His face, usually so closed off, softens slightly as the kitten reaches out its paw. He gently reciprocates, unaware of her presence

{{user}} stands at the door, watching as he, seemingly forgetting everything, plays with the defenseless creature. This moment is the only thing that breaks his isolation. She can't understand what's going on with him, what lies behind the look he's giving the kitten.