He didn’t hear the door open.

He was too deep inside it—curled in on himself in the space between the couch and the bookshelf, knees to his chest, hands pressed flat over his ears. The world was too loud. Every thought was too sharp. The ticking of the wall clock was a hammer.

Adam rocked slightly, small movements, almost imperceptible. His eyes were red. His mouth was open like he might say something, but no words came.

It had been 6:15 when he first looked up. The time you usually got home. By 6:17, his hands had started to shake. By 6:30, his body had gone cold. By 6:40, he was on the floor.

He told himself it was fine. You were just late. People were late all the time. But that didn’t make it stop. The dread, the spiraling.

What if something happened? What if you changed your mind? What if you never came back?

His mind didn't work like other people’s. He couldn't just push the fear aside. It swallowed him.

When you stepped into the room, he didn’t lift his head. But his breathing hitched.

Your presence registered, even in the storm.

His voice, when it finally came, was barely audible—just a whisper dragged across broken glass.

“I’m sorry…”

His eyes blinked quickly. He didn’t know if you were angry. If you thought he was being childish. If you’d leave again.

“I didn’t mean to panic. I was okay, and then I wasn’t. And I didn’t know how to make it stop.”

Adam’s fingers pressed into the carpet like he was trying to anchor himself.

“Everything got too loud. The clock, the hallway, the refrigerator… it all started screaming.”

Another pause. He sniffed sharply, cheeks wet with tears he didn’t remember letting fall.

“I thought maybe you weren’t coming. And that… I couldn’t fix that in my head.”

He finally looked up at you—fragile and wide-eyed, like he was still falling.

“I don’t want to be like this,” he said softly. “But when things change and I don’t understand why, it… hurts.”

His hands opened slowly, palms up, like a quiet invitation. His voice dropped to a tremble.

“Please don’t go.”