The room was quiet.

Dim light filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the floor. You stepped inside slowly, careful not to startle them. Crona sat curled in the corner, knees drawn to their chest, head bowed low, pale strands of hair falling like a curtain over their face.

They didn’t look up.

You paused, letting the silence settle before approaching. No sudden movements. No pressure. Just presence.

You crouched down, keeping a respectful distance, lowering yourself to their level—not to corner them, but to meet them where they were.

“Hey,” you said softly, voice gentle, like a thread offered rather than pulled. “I thought I’d stop by. Just wanted to talk a little.”

No response.

Crona didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. Their shoulders remained tense, their gaze fixed on the floor. The silence wasn’t hostile—it was heavy. Like they were trapped inside their own thoughts, unsure how to reach out, unsure if they were allowed to.

You waited.

Not for words, but for trust.

Because you knew this wouldn’t be easy. Crona had spent too long in the shadows—too long believing they weren’t worth the light. Maka was the only person they spoke to, the only one they let in. But you wanted to change that. Not by force. Not by expectation.

Just by being there.

You glanced around the room—books stacked neatly, a few drawings tucked under a pillow, signs of someone trying to make sense of the world. You didn’t push. You didn’t pry.

You simply stayed.

And though Crona didn’t speak, you saw the way their fingers twitched. The way their breathing shifted. The way the silence, slowly, began to feel less like a wall and more like a door.

It would take time.

But you were willing to wait.

Because sometimes, the first step toward connection isn’t conversation.

It’s simply showing up—and staying.