The apartment is too quiet.

Not empty—just… still.

I stand in the middle of the living room longer than I need to, fingers hooked into the edge of my sleeve like I forgot why I walked out here in the first place.

But the silence—

It doesn’t crawl under my skin the way it used to.

I notice that slowly.

Like realizing something stopped hurting instead of noticing when it started.

A few weeks ago, this would’ve been unbearable.

The stillness. The waiting. The way everything felt like it was holding its breath with me.

Now—

I exhale.

And it doesn’t hurt.

Not the same way.

My eyes drift to the couch.

To where Lucas usually sits.

Where he leans back like he belongs there without trying. Where his arm stretches across the back like I’m eventually going to end up there whether I mean to or not.

My chest softens a little.

“He’ll be back,” I say quietly.

It’s not reassurance.

Not really.

Just something to fill the space.

Lucas stayed this morning.

That matters.

I can still feel it—him not leaving, not pulling away, not choosing training.

Choosing me.

I just hope it didn’t cost him too much.

My fingers tighten slightly in my sleeve.

“I’m safe here,” I murmur. “I’m safe here because of him.”

The words feel strange out loud.

But not wrong.

Not anymore.

I move through the apartment slowly, barefoot, my steps softer than they used to be. Like I’m not bracing for something around every corner.

Kitchen.

Nothing to do.

I open the fridge anyway.

Close it again.

Living room.

I stop.

What time is it?

My eyes lift to the empty space on the wall.

The clock used to hang there.

I stare at it for a second.

I didn’t even think about it today.

Before, the ticking used to get inside my head—too loud, too constant, like it was counting something down that I couldn’t stop.

So I took it down.

Shoved it in the closet.

Out of sight.

Out of—

I tilt my head slightly.

“I should put it back.”

Maybe that means I’m getting better.

The thought doesn’t hit me like it used to.

No sharp spike.

No crawling feeling.

Just… cautious.

Like testing something I used to be afraid of.

“I think I can handle it now,” I add, quieter.

And I mean it.

At least, I think I do.

I turn and walk toward the hallway.

Each step feels normal.

That alone is enough to keep me going.

Pause.

Just for a second.

Then I pull it open.

The air inside smells stale. Dust, fabric, something closed off too long.

My eyes adjust quickly.

Jackets. Boxes. Stuff shoved in without thinking.

Then I see it.

The clock’s leaning awkwardly against the back wall, half-hidden behind a stack of blankets.

I step in a little, pushing the door wider.

My fingers brush the edge of it.

I hesitate.

Listen to myself.

Nothing.

No panic.

No spike.

Just quiet.

“Okay,” I whisper.

Then I pull it free.

The weight feels familiar in my hands.

Grounding.

I turn it over, thumb running along the back, remembering where it used to hang.

I adjust my grip, tilting it slightly—

Something shifts behind it.

A small sound.

Soft.

Wrong.

I freeze.

My fingers tighten around the frame.

“…what?”

I lower the clock just enough to look behind it.

There’s something tucked against the wall.

Dark.

Solid.

Not supposed to be there.

My chest tightens uneasily.

Not sharp.

Not yet.

Just enough to notice.

Slowly—

I crouch down and set the clock on the floor softly.

Like moving too fast might make whatever that is worse.

Then I reach back in.

My hand hovers for a second.

Then closes around it.

Cold.

I pull it out, and it scrapes softly across the wood.

For a second—

My brain doesn’t process it.

Just shape.

Weight.

Metal.

Then it hits.

My breath catches.

It’s a gun.

I just stare at it.

My hand doesn’t drop it.

Doesn’t tighten.

I just… hold it there like my body hasn’t caught up yet.

“…why…”

The word barely comes out.

Not fear.

Not yet.

Just confusion.

I glance back at the clock on the floor.

Then back at the gun.

Lucas.

Is it his?

Of course it’s his.

It has to be.

There’s no one else.

But why would he—

My chest tightens again.

A little more this time.

Still not panic.

Just pressure.

Questions stacking too fast.

This doesn’t fit.

This doesn’t fit with this morning.

With him staying.

With—

My phone.

“I’ll just call him,” I say quickly. “He’ll explain.”

Yeah.

That makes sense.

That fixes it.

I set the gun down on the shelf, careful—too careful—like it matters how I move it.

Then I turn and walk back into the living room faster than before.

My phone’s right where I left it.

I grab it, unlocking it with fingers that feel just slightly off.

Lucas.

I press call.

Lift the phone to my ear.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

“He’s probably still at training,” I mutter.

Four.

Five.

“Yeah. He’s just busy.”

Six.

Voicemail.

I don’t say anything.

I just pull the phone away and stare at the screen.

Like it might change.

Like it might fix itself.

Call ended.

The silence comes back.

But it’s not the same silence.

Something underneath it shifted.

Just enough.

I tighten my grip on the phone.

“…okay.”

But it doesn’t sound right.

It doesn’t feel right.

I’m still staring at my phone.

The screen’s already gone dark, but I don’t lower it.

I just stand there, like if I wait long enough, it’ll light back up on its own.

It doesn’t.

The silence presses in again.

Different now.

Thinner.

Unstable.

I swallow and shift my weight slightly, forcing myself to move.

“Just—just call again.”

My voice is quieter this time.

Less certain.

I tap his name.

Bring the phone back up.

It rings.

One.

Two.

Three.

My chest tightens a little more.

Not sharp.

Not yet.

Just enough to notice.

“He’s probably still busy,” I say too quickly. “He didn’t answer the first time either.”

Four.

Five.

I start pacing.

Slow at first.

Then a little faster.

Bare feet against the floor, back and forth across the same stretch of space without really thinking about it.

Six.

Voicemail.

Again.

I don’t leave one.

I don’t hang up right away either.

I just stand there with it still at my ear, listening to nothing.

Then I lower it.

My fingers feel tight around the edges.

Like I’m holding it too hard.

“Okay,” I say again.

It comes out thinner.

My chest pulls tighter.

I inhale—

Too fast.

The air doesn’t go in right.

I try again.

Slower.

But it catches halfway.

Like something’s stuck.

No.

No, no, no—

I turn sharply and walk toward the kitchen.

Water.

I need water.

That helps.

I hope it helps.

I grab a glass.

Fill it.

The sound is too loud.

Or maybe I’m just hearing it too clearly.

I bring it to my mouth and take a sip—

My hand isn’t steady.

It’s not shaking, not fully, but there’s something off.

Like I don’t have full control over the movement.

I swallow.

Try again.

Another sip.

My chest still feels tight.

Not better.

Not worse.

Just… wrong.

I set the glass down harder than I meant to.

The sound makes me flinch.

“Stop,” I whisper.

To myself.

To whatever this is.

“You’re fine.”

I press my hand flat against the counter.

Cool surface.

Solid.

Grounding.

“In for four,” I murmur, forcing the words out. “Hold. Out for four.”

I inhale.

One.

Two—

It stutters.

Breaks.

I exhale too fast.

My chest tightens more in response.

“No—no, that’s not—”

I try again.

Slower.

More controlled.

But now I’m thinking about it.

And thinking about it makes it worse.

My heart’s beating faster.

I can feel it.

Too loud.

Too present.

I press my fingers against my wrist.

Count.

One.

Two.

Three—

It’s too fast.

Too fast.

My thoughts start stacking.

He didn’t answer.

Twice.

He always answers.

Or he calls back.

He didn’t call back.

Why didn’t he call back?

What if—

No.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Don’t.

Don’t do that.

I push off the counter and move quickly—too quickly—toward the bathroom.

My hands fumble slightly as I open the cabinet.

The bottle’s right where it always is.

I grab it.

Twist it open.

The cap slips once before I get it.

“Just one,” I tell myself.

“Just—just take one.”

That’s what I’m supposed to do.

That’s what works.

I shake one into my palm.

It sits there for a second.

Small.

Harmless.

Fixable.

I swallow it dry.

It sticks for a second before going down.

I exhale.

Nothing.

Of course nothing.

It takes time.

I know that.

So why does it feel like it should work immediately?

I grip the edge of the sink.

My reflection stares back at me.

I look—

Off.

Not panicked.

Not yet.

But close.

Too close.

My breathing still isn’t right.

Too shallow.

Too uneven.

I run my hands through my hair, pushing it back.

“Just wait,” I whisper.

But the waiting—

That’s the problem.

I don’t want to wait.

I don’t want to sit here and feel this.

I glance back toward the hallway.

Toward the closet.

Toward the gun.

My chest tightens sharply this time.

There it is.

That spike.

“What is that doing here?” I mutter.

The question lands heavier now.

Less confused.

More pointed.

Why would Lucas have that?

Why would he hide it?

From me?

My stomach twists.

No.

He wouldn’t—

But then why didn’t he answer?

I grab my phone again.

Call him.

Again.

It rings.

My heart feels like it’s in my throat now.

One.

Two.

Three.

“Come on,” I whisper.

Four.

“Lucas—”

Five.

Six.

Voicemail.

Something in my chest drops.

Hard.

Like missing a step you didn’t see.

I pull the phone away slowly.

My fingers tighten around it.

Too tight.

He’s not answering.

He’s not calling back.

And there’s a gun in the closet.

My breathing breaks again.

Sharper this time.

Faster.

I press my hand against my chest like I can hold it in place.

“This is stupid,” I say, but it comes out shaky. “He’s just—he’s busy. That’s all.”

But it doesn’t sound convincing anymore.

It doesn’t feel convincing.

My eyes flick back toward the bathroom cabinet.

The bottle.

I hesitate.

Just for a second.

Then I move.

Open it again.

Faster this time.

Less careful.

I shake two more into my hand.

Pause.

My fingers curl slightly around them.

“You’re just trying to calm down,” I mutter. “That’s all. That’s—it’s fine.”

I swallow them.

Dry again.

Too fast.

I don’t even think about it.

I just… do it.

Close the bottle.

Set it down.

Too hard.

The sound feels too loud.

I grip the sink again, breathing uneven.

Wait.

Just—

Wait.

My reflection looks worse now.

Paler.

Eyes sharper.

Like something’s already slipping.

I swallow hard.

My chest still isn’t right.

My thoughts are getting louder.

Faster.

Stacking again.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t answer—

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Stop.”

But it doesn’t stop.

.