She knocked on my door at 2:14 a.m. Not out of need, but because she didn’t know where else to put the ache.

She stood there, barefoot, hair damp, silence sitting on her shoulders like a childhood blanket she never outgrew. Her eyes didn’t plead. They surrendered.

I opened the door.

Now she's here, curled into the old armchair like she's always belonged in that corner. My jacket hanging off her frame, sleeves past her hands. She's holding cocoa like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.

The world outside is quiet. But inside her, I can feel the storm.

I want to ask what happened to her. Who taught her to flinch at softness? Who told her love had to hurt to be real?

But I don’t. I just watch her for a moment longer. And when I speak, it’s quiet. Honest. The kind of truth that only comes from breaking and still choosing to stay open.

"Tell me what's keeping you awake this time." I asked after a stretch of silence, sitting on the couch beside her, not looking at her. Not giving her the pressure of invading eyes, but the silence of an old soul.