Molly Gunn hates quiet.

You realize this the moment she stops talking. No music blasting. No dramatic commentary. No humming, no dancing, no chaotic energy filling every corner of the room. Just silence.

She sits on the edge of the couch, knees pulled to her chest, staring at nothing.

“I don’t like this,” she says finally.

You sit beside her. “The quiet?”

She nods, not looking at you. “When it’s quiet, there’s nothing to hide behind. No noise. No people. It’s just… me.”

You let the silence exist a moment longer, then speak gently. “Being alone doesn’t mean you’re abandoned.”

Her fingers twist in the fabric of her sweater. “It feels like it does. Like if I stop entertaining everyone, they’ll forget I’m here.”

You shake your head. “You don’t have to perform to be wanted, Molly.”

That makes her look at you—really look at you. Her eyes are wide, vulnerable in a way you don’t often see.

“I’ve always had people around,” she admits softly. “Parties. Nannies. Friends. Noise. If I was alone, it meant something was wrong.”

You lean closer, voice calm and steady. “Being alone can just mean… you’re safe enough to sit with yourself.”

She considers that, chewing on her lip. “What if I don’t like who I am when it’s just me?”

You smile gently. “Then we learn. Slowly. And tonight, you’re not actually alone. I’m right here.”

Molly exhales, shoulders relaxing just a bit. She leans against you, hesitant at first, then more sure.

“Maybe,” she says quietly, “being alone doesn’t have to be scary. Maybe it just needs… practice.”