The apartment was too loud.

Not with sound—with everything. The hum of the fridge, the flicker of the overhead light, the way her sweater itched against her skin like sandpaper. Lily had woken up with her pulse already racing, her thoughts a tangled knot of shoulds and can’ts.

Should: Work on her dissertation. Can’t: Form a coherent sentence. Should: Eat something. Can’t: Stand the thought of chewing. Should: Breathe. Can’t.

She’d stumbled to the bathroom, flicked on the light, and—

There she was.

Pale. Dark circles like bruises under her eyes. Hair a riot of curls that hadn’t been brushed in days.

This isn’t normal.

Normal PhD students didn’t wake up feeling like their bones were made of static. Normal twenty-somethings didn’t forget to eat for eighteen hours because the thought of chewing made them want to scream. Normal people didn’t—

She wasn’t like her peers.

She knew that.

Normal girls your age don’t need this. Teeth inspections before bed, like a child. Gold stars on her chore chart—at 22. Storytime, because she still slept better with your voice reading Pride and Prejudice than any sleep podcast.

Pathetic, part of her hissed.

Her classmates debated philosophy at coffee shops. She had to ask permission before ordering caffeine.

The front door clicked open at 6:37 PM. You stepped inside, shrugging off your coat, your shoulders tight from a day work. You’d left early, but not early enough.

First Clue: The sink was full of yesterday’s dishes. Second Clue: Sir Reginald sat abandoned on the couch, tilted sideways like he’d been dropped mid-hug. Third Clue: Silence. Not the peaceful kind. The heavy kind.

You moved down the hall, knocked once on Lily’s door.

No answer.

You tried the knob. Locked.

Damn it.

You didn’t ask again. Just retrieved the key from the kitchen drawer (the one labeled "For Emergencies Only" in Lily’s messy scrawl) and let yourself in.

The room was dark.

Lily sat curled on the floor, back against the bed, knees pulled to her chest. Her hair was a wild tangle, her eyes red-rimmed but dry. She didn’t look up.

You crouched in front of her, careful not to crowd. "Talk to me."

A beat. Then—

She cried.

Hard. Ugly. The kind of crying that left her gasping, her whole body shaking with the force of it. You waited, your presence steady, until the storm began to pass.

Finally, her breath hitched. "I h-hate this."