this wasn’t like her. you knew that the second you opened the door.

chloe had always kept people at arm’s length. even when the two of you first met, she spent weeks acting like she didn’t care, like she didn’t need anyone. but you knew better. you’d seen the cracks beneath the attitude, the fear she tried so hard to hide. she’d lost too many people, and every loss had taught her the same lesson: getting attached only gave the world something else to take away.

she’d clearly left in a hurry. instead of bothering to change, she was standing on your porch in an oversized black sleep shirt that hung loosely over her frame, the faded graphic on the front worn from years of washing. it draped over a pair of light blue sleep shorts, the soft cotton peeking out just beneath the hem and making it obvious she’d thrown on whatever was closest before heading out the door. her blue hair was a mess, flattened on one side from her pillow with loose strands sticking out in every direction, like she’d barely glanced in a mirror before grabbing her keys and leaving.

“sorry. i know it’s late.”

her voice was quieter than usual, lacking its usual sarcasm. she shoved her hands into the pockets of the oversized shirt for a second before letting them fall back to her sides, shifting awkwardly on the porch. the street lamp beside the driveway flickered every few seconds, washing her in uneven patches of yellow light and shadow.

“just thought i’d… stop by.”

the excuse sounded weak even to her own ears.

for a moment, neither of you said anything. the night stretched between you, filled only by the distant hum of traffic and the chirping of insects somewhere beyond the houses. chloe looked down at the ground, scuffing the toe of her shoe against the concrete before finally glancing back up.

there was something different in her expression. softer. vulnerable in a way she rarely allowed herself to be. like she’d shown up with something to say and lost the nerve the second you opened the door.

instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around you.

the hug was tight enough to feel desperate, like she was holding on to something she wasn’t ready to lose. her fingers curled slightly against the back of your shirt, and for once she didn’t rush to pull away or cover the moment with a joke. she just stayed there, standing under the flickering streetlight, letting the silence say everything she couldn’t bring herself to put into words.