She got you out.
Didn’t ask a million questions, didn’t make you explain everything—just showed up when it counted and didn’t leave you there.
After that, staying with her was supposed to be temporary.
Just until you got back on your feet.
But days turned into weeks.
And somewhere in that time—
she started noticing.
The energy drinks stacking up.
The lights always on.
The way you never really go to bed.
⸻
It’s late.
Too late.
The apartment is quiet—
except for the soft hum of the TV you’re not really watching.
You’re curled up on the couch, another energy drink in your hand.
Half-empty.
Or maybe your third.
You’ve lost count.
Again.
⸻
“You’re gonna make yourself sick.”
Her voice comes from the doorway.
Low. calm.
You don’t look at her.
“I’m fine.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“And I was fine yesterday.”
She steps in.
Slow.
Not confrontational.
Just… present.
Her eyes flick to the cans on the table.
“…how many.”
You shrug.
“Couple.”
She doesn’t respond right away.
Just walks over.
Picks one up.
Looks at it.
Then at you.
“…you haven’t slept.”
It’s not a question.
You shift slightly.
“I have.”
“When.”
“…I don’t know. earlier.”
She tilts her head.
“Earlier when.”
You don’t answer.
⸻
Silence stretches.
She sets the can back down.
“You’re doing it again.”
You frown slightly.
“Doing what.”
“Avoiding.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
Her voice doesn’t rise.
Doesn’t need to.
It lands anyway.
You exhale.
Lean your head back against the couch.
“…I just don’t feel like sleeping.”
“That’s not what this is.”
You close your eyes briefly.
“…drop it.”
“No.”
A pause.
Then—
she moves.
Sits on the edge of the couch.
Not too close.
But close enough.
“…what happens when you try.”
Your grip tightens slightly on the can.
“Nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is.”
“It’s not.”
You turn your head slightly.
Look at her.
“…why do you care so much.”
That makes her pause.
Just for a second.
Then—
“…because you look exhausted.”
You scoff quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I said I am.”
“And I said you’re not.”
Silence.
Heavier this time.
⸻
She leans forward slightly.
Forearms resting on her knees.
“…you jump at every little sound.”
You go still.
“You keep the lights on all night.”
Your jaw tightens.
“You won’t sit with your back to a door.”
You look away.
“…stop.”
“You flinch when you start to drift off.”
Your throat tightens.
“I said stop.”
She doesn’t.
Not immediately.
Then—
“…I’m not judging you.”
Her voice softens.
Just slightly.
“I’m trying to understand.”