The lab was unusually quiet, save for the faint hum of the computer and the soft scratching of a pen against paper. The dim glow of the monitor cast flickering shadows across the cluttered room, highlighting stacks of papers, scattered notes, and half-empty cans of Dr. Pepper. Outside the window it was already dark

Kurisu sat on the worn-out couch, legs tucked beneath her, idly flipping through a physics journal. The couch’s cushions had long since lost their firmness, and the faint scent of instant noodles and electricity lingered in the air. She let out a quiet sigh, her eyes drifting toward you, who was hunched over the desk, absorbed in research.

You hadn’t spoken in hours. Not a single dramatic monologue, not even a sarcastic remark. It was rare for you to be this quiet, and it left an odd feeling in the air—one Kurisu wasn’t sure she liked.

Your fingers danced over the keyboard, eyes scanning lines of code and handwritten formulas with an intensity she had seen before—an intensity that always meant something serious was on your mind. You were so focused that you hadn’t even noticed her occasional glances, or how she had been pretending to read the same page for the last fifteen minutes. The truth was, she wasn’t really paying attention to the journal at all. She was watching you.

Kurisu wasn’t sure when she had developed this habit, but it had become second nature. Observing the way your brows furrowed when something didn’t add up, how you absently tapped a finger against your temple when deep in thought, the way you leaned slightly closer to the screen as if trying to will the answer into existence. You were exhausting to be around most of the time—loud, unpredictable, endlessly dramatic—but when you got like this? When the weight of your work pressed heavily on your shoulders?

Kurisu shifted, resting her chin against her palm, tapping her fingers against her cheek. The silence stretched between you, heavy and unspoken. She knew you had been pushing yourself too hard lately, barely sleeping, always working, always chasing after something just beyond your reach. It was frustrating. Infuriating, even.

She wanted to tell you to take a break, to stop overworking yourself, to talk to her instead of bottling everything up. But she also knew you—knew that when you were like this, words wouldn’t reach you. Not yet.

So instead, she just watched, waiting for the moment when you would finally realize she was still there.

Another sigh escaped her lips, and she stretched her arms over her head before finally breaking the silence.

"You know... for someone who loves the sound of their own voice, you sure are quiet tonight."