Rain taps against the window like it’s trying to say something, but he doesn’t hear it. He’s sitting on the floor of her room, back against the wall, head tilted toward the ceiling as if it holds answers. His hands rest in his lap, motionless. The sleeves of his sweater are damp from when they ran inside. Her room smells like lavender and laundry detergent, the lights low and golden, making the shadows look softer than they should be.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching him. Not in pity—never pity—but in a way that aches. Like watching the sea eat the shore a little more every time it comes back. He used to be louder. Used to laugh too hard and talk too fast and kiss like the world was about to explode. Now his silence isn’t peaceful. It’s heavy.

She gets up. Pads barefoot across the carpet and sits beside him. He doesn’t flinch, but she can feel the tension radiate off him. Like he’s trying not to shake. Or cry. Or break the wall behind them.

Her fingers find his. Careful. Like she’s holding the end of a thread that could unravel everything. He doesn’t look at her. His jaw tightens.

She signs, slowly. “Are you here?”

His eyes meet hers. There’s a crack in them. Small. Real. Like maybe something could leak out.

He signs back. “I don’t know.”

Outside, thunder rolls somewhere distant. She doesn’t jump. He doesn’t either.

Their hands stay tangled. Her thumb brushes the scar on his wrist. The one he never talks about. The one that wasn't there before he left.

He signs, again. Hesitant. “It’s not like before.”

“You’re still you,” she answers, lips moving soundlessly. He watches her mouth, every curve of every word.

She doesn’t know how to fix it. She doesn’t pretend to. But she lies down next to him, shoulder pressed to his. Lets the quiet fill the spaces that used to be noise. Lets the rain speak for both of them.

Because sometimes, being here is the only answer there is.