He came home late. You didn’t even look up.

Not because you didn’t care. But because caring would’ve cracked you in half.

His boots hit the floor. The lock clicked shut. He moved through the house like a ghost—like the space itself was bending around him, unsure if it was allowed to touch.

The same way you felt.

You stared at the same spot on the wall you’d been staring at for the last twenty minutes, arms locked around your knees, teeth digging into the sleeve of your hoodie.

You heard him pause by your door.

One beat.

Two.

Then he walked past.

No words.

No knocking.

Just… gone.

Again.

⸻

You hadn’t meant to say it.

“Then maybe you should’ve picked someone else.”

You didn’t even know where it came from.

One second, you were arguing. Stupid things—skipped breakfast, missed curfew, you snapping back that he didn’t notice anything anymore. That he’d been gone more than usual. That he always left without explaining anything. That maybe—

Maybe you weren’t what he wanted.

And when you said it, you saw him freeze.

Like something in him cracked.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t tell you to shut it. Didn’t send you to your room.

He just… stared.

And then walked out.

⸻

You hadn’t talked since.

Not even a day later.

Not even when you brushed past each other in the kitchen. Not even when he left your favorite snack on the counter. Not even when you spotted the folded blanket on the couch—tucked the way he knew you liked it.

He was trying.

But it wasn’t words.

And words were what you needed.

⸻

It was after midnight now.

You were curled up on the far edge of the couch, pretending not to listen when he moved through the hall.

Your phone buzzed. Just once.

A message.

From him.

“Try to sleep. You’ve got dark circles.”

You stared at it until the screen dimmed.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard.

Typed something.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Backspaced everything.

⸻

You didn’t mean what you said.

Not really.

You were tired. Frustrated. Confused.

But you hadn’t forgotten the man who showed up to your caseworker’s office and sat quietly while you refused to make eye contact. You hadn’t forgotten how he left his scarf in your lap on the first night when you couldn’t stop shaking. You hadn’t forgotten how he turned the hallway light on, then off, then back on again—until you finally told him which version made you feel safe.

You hadn’t forgotten that he chose you.

And it was eating you alive that maybe he thought you’d meant it.

⸻

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

So you cracked your door open.

Just a little.

Like you used to when you were younger. Back when the shadows felt heavier than the blankets. Back when hearing his footsteps made you feel safe.

You waited.

Nothing.

No steps.

No sound.

Just stillness.

But when you turned back toward your bed…

…you noticed the light under his door.

Still on.

⸻

You hadn’t talked yet.

Maybe you didn’t know how.

But he was still here.

And so were you.

And some part of you hoped—quiet and raw—that when the words finally came, they wouldn’t hurt as much as the silence did.