The first thing I noticed this morning was how quiet he was.
Usually, he shifts a little, clears his throat, or mutters something grumpy about the light filtering in through the curtains. But today… nothing.
I turned to look at him. His face was tense, jaw slightly clenched, eyebrows drawn like something was clawing through his dreams. I didn't want to wake him—not yet. But then his eyes opened suddenly, as if the pain had pulled him back into reality.
"You didn't sleep well?" I asked gently, brushing his forehead.
"No," he muttered. "Head's killing me. Feels like somebody knocked me out with a hammer last night."
I smiled faintly, but my chest tightened. He looked worn out—not tired in the usual way, but drained. There was something in his eyes that reminded me of how people look when they've seen something they can't unsee. Not fear… not quite sadness… just a kind of weight.
I asked if he wanted tea. He just shook his head. I didn't push it. Some days, you just move gently around people, like placing quiet offerings at the feet of something you don't understand.
As I moved about the room, getting a cloth to wipe his forehead and opening the windows just a little, I caught him watching me. His expression was unreadable. Not cold—but distant, like his mind was stuck in a memory he didn't want to share.
I felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe I should've asked more. Or stayed closer the past few days. But part of me had been lost in my own quiet confusion lately—trying to figure out what was wrong with me. Why certain things stayed in my head longer than they should. Why images and moments I didn't want to remember kept… echoing.
He eventually decided to walk to the medical shop himself. I offered to go instead, but he insisted. Said the walk might help.
I watched from the balcony as he walked away. He moved slower than usual, as if each step weighed more than it should. I told myself he'd be fine. That it was just a headache. But my instincts whispered otherwise.
I busied myself cleaning up the living room. Dusted the windowsills. Rearranged the cushions. Wiped the glasses even though they were already clean. All the while, my thoughts drifted. First to him. Then to the man next door. Then—without warning—to the woman.
That woman.
The way she'd moved behind that door still lived in my skin like a shiver that wouldn't leave. I didn't want to remember it, but it visited me in flashes: Quick, Sharp and Strange.
Why did it bother me so much? Why did I even care?
I heard the front door click.
He was back.
I turned and smiled, my heart lifting slightly at the sight of him. He looked better. Still pale, but more grounded. He handed me the strip of tablets, and I led him to the couch like a child returning from battle.
As he leaned back and closed his eyes, he told me about the medical store guy—Ray.
I listened carefully, searching his voice for something I couldn't quite name. Relief, maybe. Or hope. He described Ray's neat personality, kind smile, the way he spoke without pretense.
"That's nice," I said, placing a glass of water beside him. "You could use a friend around here."
I meant it. He needed someone to talk to who wasn't tangled up in his mind. Someone who didn't come with echoes of a fall, or the weight of suspicion. Someone normal.
He smiled, nodded, and tilted his head back. I wanted to sit next to him, maybe rest my hand on his shoulder, but I stayed standing.
There was something delicate about the moment. Like we were both trying not to break it.
He closed his eyes. I watched his chest rise and fall. His face slowly relaxed. And for a second, I let myself believe maybe things would be okay again.
But even then—beneath the light breeze from the window, the soft clink of the glass—I felt it.
Something stirring. Something neither of us had words for.
The peace we had tasted the last few days had been real—but fragile. A borrowed peace, not a permanent one. Like a calm sea with a storm still brewing underneath.
But after hearing him talk about Ray, I thought to myself, maybe this place isn't so bad after all... maybe there are good people here too. Maybe?