The television hums in the background, flickering shadows across the small flat’s walls. You’re sitting on the worn-out sofa, legs tucked beneath you, a blanket draped over your lap. Rain slicks the windows, quiet and steady — a lullaby only the city can sing.

James hasn’t said a word in nearly an hour.

He’s been standing by the window, arms folded, the blue wash of streetlights painting his profile in cold light. His jaw ticks every so often, and his eyes flick from building to building like he’s searching for something, or someone, he knows won’t appear.

You don’t speak, not yet. You’ve learned how to be patient with him. James doesn’t unfold quickly — he’s like something sealed tight for too long, left in the dark, hardened by time and war and silence. But not unfixable.

Eventually, his voice cuts through the quiet.

“I don’t sleep.” His voice cracks. “I hear things. I see things that aren’t… real. My hands shake. Sometimes I think I’m still there. In it.”

“I know.”

He stares at you, breath unsteady, like he’s never been looked at like this before. Like no one’s ever told him he’s not broken beyond repair.

You reach up slowly, fingers brushing the side of his face, just beneath his ear.

“I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m asking you to let me in.”