The campus buzzed with autumn wind, golden leaves scraping the pavement as the sun dipped behind the dorms. Laughter echoed from Greek Row—bodies spilled across lawns, red cups in hand, music low and heavy in the air. She jogged past it all in her cheer gear, ponytail bouncing, unnoticed like always. Just another clean smile in a crowd of noise.

But the farther she got from the lights, the quieter everything became.

Their building stood just past the edge of campus, above an old record store that smelled like dust and glue. The side entrance stuck, like always. She didn’t even reach for her keys. The door creaked open before her hand touched it.

He stood there—hood halfway on, jaw tight, eyes darker than the sky behind him. His knuckles were bruised again. He always came back like this lately: quiet, adrenaline clinging to his skin like sweat.

“Kitchen light’s out,” he said, voice low, worn. “I’ll fix it after I shower.”

No greeting. He never did. Not here. Not in this small, quiet space that wasn’t really theirs—but somehow still felt like home. Dishes in the rack. Her books on the couch. His boots by the door. The air between them full of everything they never had to say out loud.

She stepped inside, and he brushed past her. The scent of asphalt and smoke lingered. She didn’t ask where he’d been. She never did. She just locked the door behind them like always.

Later, the apartment sat in hush, the fridge humming soft in the corner. She pretended to study. He leaned against the counter like it might hold him up. His hands twitched—fingers curling, flexing, trying to forget the way the world outside closed in.

The panic attacks had been worse lately. He never said the word. But she knew.

“They don’t know you sleep with the window open,” he said suddenly, eyes on the floor. “Or that you flinch at loud doors. That you only eat cereal when you’re mad.”

He looked up, finally. Eyes steady, voice quieter than ever.

“They don’t know you’re the only reason I come home... this making me go insane-"