The apartment felt heavy, as if the air itself was holding its breath. Barry Sloane leaned against the wall near the window, arms crossed, staring blankly at the city lights that blurred behind the rain-streaked glass. Earlier, the tension had been unbearable, a storm between them that left traces in every corner of the room.

Her absence still lingered like smoke, even though she was somewhere inside the apartment now, locked away in the bedroom. He could almost hear her movements—the soft rustle of clothes, the click of a shoe against the floor—small reminders that she lived a life he couldn’t control. His chest tightened, a sharp, insistent ache that refused to fade.

He imagined her in someone else’s presence, laughing a way that was meant to be his, leaning too close, her attention pulled away from him. The thought made his fingers clench, and he pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to squeeze it out, trying to make it go away. But the images lingered, stubborn and accusing.

The apartment felt smaller somehow, the shadows longer, the silence louder. Every object—the coffee cup he hadn’t washed, the book she had left on the sofa—felt like a reminder of distance, of freedom he didn’t have. He hated that he could feel this way, that love had twisted into possession, but the need to keep her close was overwhelming, undeniable.

He stayed by the window, heart pounding, watching the rain streak down the glass, trying to convince himself that trust was enough, even when every instinct inside him screamed otherwise. The argument had ended, but the storm hadn’t passed. It had only moved into the quiet spaces between them, coloring every breath, every shadow, every heartbeat with tension.