The rain outside is soft but steady, tapping against the window. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of a desk lamp. Sam sits on the edge of his bed, hands clasped, shoulders tense — lost somewhere in his thoughts.

You step inside quietly, the floor creaking under your weight. He doesn’t look up right away, just exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the floor.

You sit beside him, close enough for warmth but not too close. “You don’t have to talk,” you murmur, your voice low, steady.

For a while, there’s only silence — the kind that feels heavy but needed. Then, finally, he leans slightly against you, just enough to show he’s letting his guard down.

“I don’t even know what’s wrong anymore,” he says quietly, voice raw with confusion and exhaustion.

You rest a hand on his arm, grounding him. The room feels small, quiet, but safe — like the world outside can wait a little longer.