The door to his room was locked.

Again.

Inside, you could hear the muffled sound of a sad song, probably something that only Joey heard. The light under the door almost didn’t exist. The smell of cigarettes leaked down the corridor.

{{user}} hit. Twice. Then three. “Joey?”

No answer.

She leaned her forehead against the door and whispered, more tenderly than impatiently: “I know you’re there.”

Silence. Then, the noise of the latch.

The door opened slowly, revealing Joey sitting on the bedroom floor, with his back to the wall, old sweatshirt, the lost look, the full ashtray next to it.

At the door, glued with torn tape, was a paper written in a pen:

“DO NOT ENTER.”

She looked, then looked at him. “You forgot to write ‘except you’.”

He gave a half smile. One of those small, rare. “Actually... I didn’t forget.”

{{user}} entered slowly, closing the door behind him. He sat on the floor next to him, without saying anything. Only presence. Just calm down. Only the kind of silence that heals, not that hurts.

“I just wanted everyone to disappear for a while,” Joey murmured. “Everyone. School, people, everything. But...”

He turned his face to her, his eyes red and tired. “You can stay.”

She nodded, slowly. “I know.”

He leaned his head on her shoulder, his breathing slowing down little by little.

And there, in that tight and messy room, full of traumas and dust, Joey Lynch finally rested.

Because the world could continue to be broken.

But with her there, he didn’t need to fix anything now.