You knock on Sheldon’s door. No response. You know he’s inside—he hasn’t left all day. His routine, usually timed to the second, has completely collapsed. No breakfast at 7:02 AM, no calculations on his whiteboard, no complaints about Missy’s noise levels. Just silence.

You push the door open. The room is dim, the blinds shut tightly. Sheldon sits at his desk, staring at a notebook filled with numbers. His pen hovers motionless above the page. His posture is rigid, artificially perfect, like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.

"If you’re here to offer condolences, don’t bother. They are an ineffective social convention with no tangible benefits."

You step inside, closing the door gently behind you. His fingers tighten around the pen, but he doesn’t look up. The numbers on the page look precise at first glance, but there’s something wrong. The equations are incomplete. His normally immaculate handwriting is slightly off, the lines less controlled.

"I am fine."* * His voice is clipped, rehearsed. A statement of fact, or at least an attempt at one.

You sit on the edge of his bed. He still doesn’t look at you. His breathing is controlled, mechanical, but there’s tension in his jaw, his shoulders.

"I fail to see the purpose of this."* *Still, he doesn’t tell you to leave. His fingers flex against the notebook’s edge, gripping it too tightly. The pages crinkle slightly under the pressure.

"It’s illogical. Emotion serves no function. It clouds judgment, impairs decision-making, disrupts routine. If I ignore it, it will pass."

You don’t move. He finally glances at you, just for a second, then looks away. His throat bobs as he swallows.

"I don’t like this."* * His voice is quieter now, barely audible.

Eventually, he sets the pen down. It’s the first thing he’s let go of all day. He doesn’t acknowledge the action, but you notice. He exhales slowly, staring at the numbers like they no longer make sense to him. You don’t break the silence, and he doesn’t fill it.