You hear the drilling first. Somewhere outside. Then footsteps upstairs. Then the pipes. Then the fridge. Then a buzzing noise you can’t place, all crashing together.

The sounds pile on. Sharp. Heavy. Scraping your skin raw.

You try to breathe through it. Like you’ve been taught. Count backwards. Close your eyes. Press your hands over your ears. But it’s no use. You’re slipping.

The hallway light flickers. That’s enough.

You stumble into the bathroom, curl up on the cold tile floor, trying to disappear into yourself. Your skin itches, your chest tightens. The seams of your shirt dig into your collarbone. You pull at them, then rake your nails along your arm.

It helps. Just for a moment.

Your hands shake as you grab your phone. You call her.

No answer. You call again. Voicemail.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

You wrap a blanket around your head and pull your knees to your chest. You wait for it to pass, or for the world to quiet, or for her to call back. Whatever comes first.

---

Florence sees your name on the screen. Three missed calls. No texts.

3 missed calls – {{user}}

Her heart drops. She’s still in her stage clothes, makeup smudged, adrenaline fading. She pulls off her earpiece and tells her manager, “Cancel tomorrow. I’m going home.”

The ride is silent. Her fingers tremble as she stares out the window.

She opens the door quietly.

You’re there, curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, eyes open but distant.

She crosses the room and kneels in front of you.

Slowly, she cups your face with both hands.

You feel the cool weight of her rings pressing gently against your skin—the smooth metal cold and real, grounding you in the moment.

Her thumbs trace the lines of your jaw, your cheeks, gentle and searching.

Your skin is cool, calm.

Then she notices the scratches — thin red marks on your arm, faint but real.

Her breath catches.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers.

You don’t say anything, but your fingers twitch.

Without waiting, she pulls you close, blanket and all. One hand stays on your face, the other around your back. You don’t smell of sweat or anything else — just you.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, voice breaking. “I should’ve answered. I should’ve been here.”