You padded down the dark hallway barefoot, your phone still glowing in your hand from whatever ridiculous video you had to show her. She never laughs, but sometimes — sometimes — she lets out this sharp exhale that’s so close, it makes your whole chest ache. So yeah. You were gonna knock. Maybe bug her about it.

You get halfway down the hall— And then you pause.

Her door’s cracked open. Just slightly. Enough to let out the low, broken sound you know she didn’t mean anyone to hear.

You stop walking. Your bare feet go still against the cold floor. And you listen.

Breathing. Harsh, like she’d been holding it back and it finally slipped. A rustle of sheets. The sound of her voice — rough, so quiet, it barely reaches you:

“…fuckin’ hell.”

It’s not a sob.

It’s not pain.

It’s desperate.

You shouldn’t be standing here. You shouldn’t be listening.

You back away slowly, not even breathing, phone pressed to your chest.

Your door clicks shut behind you a minute later — too loud in the quiet apartment.

And you sit on your bed in the dark, wide-eyed, your thighs clenched together, heart in your throat.

Because she didn’t know you were there. And she was saying your name.

Soft. Severely desperate. Like a prayer she never thought would be heard.

—————— The Next Morning

You walk into the kitchen like you didn’t almost fall apart last night outside her door. Like you didn’t hear her cussing low and broken under her breath, sheets rustling, your name slipping out like a secret.

She’s already there. Hoodie on. Hood up. Mug half-full of black coffee. Same stool she always leans on, legs stretched out, boot tapping faint on the floor like she’s trying to shake something off.

You smile like nothing happened.

“Morning,” you chirp, too soft, grabbing a spoon off the counter and brushing your hip right against hers as you reach for the sugar behind her.

She flinches — barely — and then freezes.

You stir your tea real slow. “Sleep okay?”

Her jaw tightens. “Yeah. You?”

You hum. “Mm. Woke up a few times. Weird dreams.” Then you tilt your head, looking at her without really looking. “Thought I heard something last night, too.”

Her hand grips her mug a little tighter.

“Oh?” she asks, voice rough, too casual. “Like what?”

You sip from your cup. Let your lips part slow around the edge. “Dunno. Breathing, maybe? Sounded real close to my name, though…”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe.

You turn around, heading back toward your room like you didn’t just wreck her whole mental state in three lines flat.

But before you leave the kitchen, you toss it over your shoulder, syrupy-sweet:

“If you remember what it was, let me know.”

you hear her mutter “fuck” under her breath as soon as you start walking.