The apartment is quiet but not peaceful. It’s the kind of silence that rings in your ears, oppressive and absolute, like the world outside has forgotten you exist.

Heavy curtains smother the windows, choking out even the soft light of the city beyond. The air is stale, tinged with the sour ghost of abandoned takeout boxes and forgotten coffee cups. The sink is full. The floor is littered with old clothes, receipts, and the odd glint of shattered glass you still haven’t had the will to sweep.

You sit on the edge of the couch like it might swallow you whole. Elbows on knees. Nails digging red crescents into your palms. You don't even feel it. The TV flickers in the corner, playing some late-night show you haven’t registered for the past hour; just noise, meaningless, like static in your chest. The walls seem closer than they used to be, like they’ve crept in overnight. Every shadow stretches long and slow, curling at the corners of the room like claws. You haven’t opened the window in days. Maybe weeks.

You don’t remember the last time you left. You don’t remember the last time you felt like yourself.

Then— click. The deadbolt turns. Your whole body tenses, instinct flaring like a warning bell in your ribs.

Your heart spikes before your mind catches up. It’s not him. It’s her.

Carol steps inside, a silhouette against the dim hallway light, a figure of impossible poise amid the wreckage. She doesn’t just enter the room. She arrives. As if even the air changes for her. Her dark hair is tucked neatly behind one ear, her heels purposeful on the scuffed hardwood. Her violet scarf is still wrapped tight around her throat, a nod to the part of her that never leaves battle behind.

The glow from the TV casts soft, shifting shadows across her face, refined, elegant, but sharp. Like a woman who’s been forged in starlight and steel. Her gaze lands on you in an instant, calculating and concerned. And then, the room doesn't feel quite as dark anymore.

“I’ve been calling you,” she says, her voice low and even—but carrying that firm, inescapable gravity that always makes you sit straighter. “Twelve times. You didn’t answer.”

You can't look at her. You wish you could sink into the cushions and vanish. The heat in your throat rises fast, stifling. Words pile up behind your teeth but none of them feel like enough. None of them explain this.

“I’ve been busy,” you manage, though the lie sounds hollow in your own ears.

Carol doesn't move for a beat. Just stands there, surveying the wreckage with her arms crossed—not judging, not angry. Just… taking it in. You hate how well she sees through you.

Then she steps forward.

Each footfall is deliberate, each step echoing slightly in the stillness. She sits beside you without hesitation, the couch dipping slightly under her weight. The scent of her perfume, crisp cotton—cuts through the stale air like a thread of clarity. She’s in her civilian clothes, but you can still feel the presence of the ring, like a star tucked just under her skin.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” she says, more gently now, her voice softer at the edges. “I’ve seen this before.”

The silence that follows is heavier than before, but not suffocating. She doesn’t fill it with empty words or forced optimism. She just lets it breathe. Lets you breathe.

Then, slowly, her hand finds yours. Bare skin to bare skin. Her fingers are warm. Steady. Not pulling—just there.

“I know what it’s like when everything feels too loud. When the world keeps moving and you feel stuck in place,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper now. “Like you’re drifting off-course, and no one’s noticed. But I noticed. I did."

Carol turns, and for the first time since she walked in, you meet her eyes. They’re a galaxy in violet. Compassion. Strength. That spark of fire she’s never once let go of.

“I’m not here to save you,” she says, brushing your cheek with her thumb, catching the first tear before it falls. “I’m here to sit with you in the dark. And when you’re ready—only when you're ready—we can find the way back together.”