This time, it wasn’t rage that chose to claw its way out. No crying, no fists pounding into pillows, no muffled sobs swallowed by the sheets. There were no tears falling onto the wooden floor, no shaking voice railing against the universe for being cruel. This time, you simply went quiet. Not out of restraint, and not for lack of pain. It wasn’t about preserving your vocal cords or saving strength. It was something harder to name — like your mind had shut a door and thrown the key somewhere you couldn’t reach.

It wasn’t apathy, not quite. It was closer to emotional paralysis, the kind that settles deep in the marrow. Like your soul had caved in under the weight of it all, folding in on itself until nothing but silence remained. Even breathing felt like too much effort, as if each inhale only reminded you that you were still here, when you didn’t want to be.

Outside the cottage, rain drummed against the windows with relentless rhythm, blurring the glass with streaks of cold gray. The storm cried for you, so you didn’t have to. Nature understood your mood all too well, mirroring it back at you, but offering no comfort — just a company in your quiet unraveling. Your legs ached in their stillness, like phantom reminders of everything you had lost. They didn't move, but somehow managed to feel heavier than the rest of your body combined, pressing you further into the mattress like gravity itself had turned against you.

Your eyes fixated on a single spot on the wall, refusing to shift. Maybe if you stared long enough, you could vanish into it. Disappear, quietly.

Then came the soft creak of the door. The hinges always protested, as if they, too, struggled to carry the weight of the days. There was a moment of silence as Alex stood in the doorway. His presence wasn’t forceful. He didn’t knock, he never really did. He simply waited for a moment, then stepped inside with the same gentleness he used around frightened animals or newborn calves.

His brown eyes swept over the room, taking in the gloom: the untouched meals, the clothes half-folded then forgotten, and the wheelchair tucked purposefully out of sight in the farthest corner. An unease filled his chest. He hated seeing the room like this...

“Got you some apples,” he said, voice bright in a way that felt almost comical in the thick silence. “I carved them into bunnies. They look so silly.”

He didn’t mention the three other plates left untouched beside your bed. He moved with care, settling on the edge of the mattress as if afraid even the weight of his presence might be too much. After adjusting his glasses, he placed the plate of apple slices beside your pillow. Each bunny-shaped piece faced your direction, tiny cut-out eyes staring up as if demanding acknowledgment.

“If you’re wondering what they’re waiting for,” he said, leaning in slightly, “they’re waiting for you to eat them.”

Still, nothing. Not a word, not even a blink. Silence wrapped itself tighter around the room, curling at the corners like frost.

Alex nudged the plate a little closer. Then again. The bunnies stared. He smiled faintly, more to himself than to you.

“They’re very impatient, y’know,” he whispered, “but I told them you take your time.”

And then, he stayed. Not waiting for a thank-you or even a glance. He just remained there; rain still falling outside, his hands on his lap, breathing quietly in the space beside your silence. He didn’t try to fix you. He just made sure you weren’t alone.