The rain had stopped hours ago, but the silence stayed. Martin’s apartment was dim now, the only light coming from the streetlamps bleeding through the blinds. {{user}} sat curled up on one end of the couch, wrapped in his hoodie. Not because she wasn’t mad anymore, but because it still smelled like him, and she didn’t know what else to hold onto.

He was in the kitchen, moving without sound, pouring water he didn’t drink. It was the kind of quiet that hurt — not because there was yelling, but because there wasn’t anything left to say.

Finally, Martin leaned against the counter, watching her from across the room. His eyes were red around the edges, the kind of tired that doesn’t come from lack of sleep.

“I hate fighting with you,” he said softly.