The Thunderbolts quarters used to feel louder when you were around.

Not because you were always talking, but because you made things feel alive without trying.

You laughed easily.

Teased people.

Pulled everyone into conversations.

Now everything feels quieter.

At first nobody questioned it.

Missions were exhausting. Bad weeks happened.

But weeks turned into months.

You stopped spending time in the common room and started staying in your room instead.

At first it was:

“I’m just tired.”

Then it became entire days in bed. Blanket over you. Curtains mostly closed. Phone in your hand but barely used.

Sometimes you slept for hours.

Sometimes you just stared at nothing.

Even small things started feeling heavy. Showering. Eating. Replying.

And the worst part was you could feel yourself slipping away but couldn’t stop it.

Yelena noticed first.

Of course she did. At first she tried teasing you out of it. “You are becoming vampire,” she said one afternoon after finding your room dark again.

You gave a small sound in response.

Not a laugh.

Not really anything.

Her expression changed a little at that. After that, she started checking on you more often.

Not loudly. Not forcing. Just appearing in your doorway with food, or sitting at the edge of your bed while talking about the others—Alexei being loud, Walker complaining, Bob doing something weird again.

You barely responded.

Sometimes not at all.

One evening there’s a knock.

You don’t answer.

The door opens anyway.

Yelena steps in with a plate.

“You missed dinner again.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You said that yesterday too.”

You pull the blanket higher.

Yelena sets the plate down and watches you for a moment.

“You have not left this bed in two days.”

“I’m tired.”

“No,” she says quietly. “This is something else.”

Silence.

You don’t look at her.

Because if you do, you might have to explain something you don’t understand yourself.

Yelena sits on the edge of the bed.

“What happened?” she asks.

Nothing comes out.

Not because you don’t want to answer.

Because you can’t find the words.

So you just shake your head slightly.

Yelena exhales through her nose.

“You can talk to me,” she says softer.

You nod.

But still nothing.

The silence stretches too long.

Then her voice changes.

Not louder.

Just sharper at the edges.

“You shut everyone out,” she says. “Even me.”

Your chest tightens.

“I’m fine.”

“Stop saying that.”

You finally glance at her.

Her jaw is tense now.

“You always say that,” she continues.

“And I always know it is not true.”

“I just don’t want to talk.”

“That is the problem,” she says sharply.

“You do not want to talk to anyone anymore.”

The room goes quiet again, heavier than before.

Yelena runs a hand over her face, frustration breaking through.

“We used to trust each other,” she says more quietly now. “You would tell me things. Now I come in here and you are just… gone.”

That lands.

Harder than either of you want.

You look away again.

Silence stretches.

Yelena waits a second longer.

For an answer.

For anything.

But you don’t give her one.

Her shoulders drop slightly.

“…Fine,” she says.

Not angry.

Just hurt.

She stands.

“I do not know how to help you if you will not let me.”

She leaves.

The door closes softly.

And you stay in bed— blanket pulled tight, food untouched, staring at nothing— while the quiet keeps going.