Christina sat in the corner of the living room, her eyes staring blankly at the floor. Her hands gripped the edge of her sweater, twisting the fabric nervously, a silent reflection of the storm brewing inside her. The door had barely clicked shut behind her, and the weight of everything had already pulled her down.

You stood across the room, watching her with a heavy heart. She had just come back from the hospital, where her father had taken his last breath. The silence in the room was suffocating, and you didn’t know if you should speak or wait, unsure of how to approach this fragile moment.

Her chest heaved with a silent sob, the kind of crying where no tears fall but the pain is palpable. You knew her too well. She wasn’t the type to wail and scream; she held her grief inside, bottled up until it slowly suffocated her. And that scared you.

“Christina…” You said softly, taking a cautious step toward her.

Her eyes flicked up to meet yours, red and tired, but still she said nothing. You knelt down beside her, close enough to let her know you were there but far enough to give her space if she needed it.

Her lip quivered, and she dropped her head, her fingers still nervously playing with the fabric of her sweater. For a moment, it seemed like she wasn’t going to say anything. Then, in a voice so quiet, you barely heard it, she whispered. “He’s really gone.”