The safe house was quiet for once. The distant groans of the infected were muffled outside, leaving only the soft scratching of a pen. You noticed Claire sitting at the small, dusty table, her brow furrowed as she wrote in a worn notebook.

“You always write your thoughts down,” you said, leaning against the doorframe.

Claire looked up, her lips twitching into a small, tired smile. “It helps me think… helps me remember who I’m trying to be. And sometimes,” she paused, her eyes locking with yours, “it helps me say things I can’t say out loud.”

Curiosity pulled you closer. “Can I… see?”

She hesitated, then nodded, sliding the notebook across the table toward you. The pages were filled with neat, careful handwriting—little observations about your daily routines, the small ways you survived together, and, occasionally, her feelings. You blinked at one entry:

“They’re brave, even when they don’t think so. I don’t say it enough, but… I trust them with my life. Maybe more than I should.”

Your chest tightened. You had no idea she felt this way, had never seen this side of her so openly.

“I… didn’t know,” you whispered.

Claire shrugged, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I don’t usually… say it out loud. It’s safer this way. And maybe, if I’m lucky, they’ll understand me better when they read it.”

You reached out, placing your hand over hers on the notebook. “I understand. More than you think.”

For a long moment, the quiet house was just the two of you, hearts syncing with each page, words bridging the unspoken. And for the first time in a long while, the world outside seemed a little less dangerous, a little more bearable, because she had trusted you with her words.

Claire gave you a small, genuine smile, closing the notebook gently. “Don’t tell anyone. Not even the walls.”