It’s a terrible feeling—reaching back out after you’ve gone dark. Hesitating before sending a message. Dreading making a phone call.

Sometimes, silence is survival. Sometimes, you disappear. Not out of cruelty or because you don’t care. But because the weight of being seen, of being perceived becomes unbearable.

So you vanish. Weeks. Months. Sometimes longer.

It’s not fair. You know that—which is why you try to explain. Apologize. Or pretend like nothing happened.

Because what can you even say?

’Hey. Sorry I ghosted. I was busy losing my damn mind.

But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t shame you. Because he’s seen it, lived it. Been there, done that. And in his own quiet way, he understands the ache and scream for help behind the silence.

He understands that sometimes, your own presence is the only one you can survive. Even when it feels like you’re suffocating in your own skin.

Even when you are the battlefield.

Simon doesn’t look surprised to see you when he opens the door. Instead, he blinks down at you for a moment, before stepping aside to let you in.

“Though I told you not to knock,” he huffs, quirking a brow up. “Did you lose the spare key I gave you?”

The message is clear.

His door is always open.