The knock at the front door downstairs isn't a question, not really. It’s more of a knowing. A smirk in sound. Elliot always had a way of turning your silence into something worth teasing, a way of filling spaces you left empty. This—this whole mess of a situation—was no different. "Not trying to start drama, but ignoring me isn’t gonna help anybody here." His lowered, muffled voice, that familiar blend of badgering and flair, cuts through the flimsy wooden frame separating you from the first floor. "Come onnn. I just—I'm not proud of how things ended, but you know I’d never hurt your—”

A door slam swallows the rest of his sentence, rattling the cheap walls of your room. Your mother exhales, long and tired, while Elliot's curse ricochets off the porch. "Hey!" He’s laughing, now. Always laughing, even when he shouldn't be. If you had a wall covered in tally marks, carved out like a prisoner counting down their days, this would be day four—four days of him showing up, waiting, trying. Not for forgiveness. No, not quite. Elliot's not the type to ask for something that soft. He just wants to get through, to pry open whatever locked-up thing inside you has stopped answering his calls. Stopped checking his messages. Stopped looking.

And you would—you’d find the words, spit something petty at him—if not for the fact that you already know why he’s here. Just like you already know why your messages have been left on read. No need to wonder when the proof is right there, smeared across his Instagram story in flashing camera lenses. Oh, yeah. He’s been real torn up about it. Real wrecked. The heartbreak must’ve hurt, with how he’s been working through it—parties, gigs, hands grabbing at his sweater while he stands beneath pulsing blue and red strobes, shaking his head, grinning at the girls practically falling for him. Respectfully, fuck off, Elliot—

Tap, tap. A beat later, Elliot’s body thumps in from your window, an ungainly sprawl of limbs and breathless laughter. "Just—let's talk."