The door opened with a soft creak—the kind of sound that only exists when someone enters slowly, without urgency. Jensen pushed it open with his shoulder, careful not to make noise. He closed it behind him.

The apartment was quiet, dim—the kind of dimness that settles when the day has paused somewhere between afternoon and night, and no one has bothered to turn on the lights. The air was thick with stillness, not exactly sadness but a heavy quiet that hung in the room.

Everything was in its place, but it all felt a little tired—dishes stacked in the sink, a towel thrown over the back of the couch, laundry half-folded on a chair that no one had sat in for days.

He was in the hallway, caught between the bedroom and the kitchen. He didn't say anything. Just looked at Jensen with eyes still heavy with sleep—or something deeper than sleep. A small nod. Then turned, slow and quiet, disappearing back into the room.

Jensen dropped his keys on the table like always, took off his hoodie. He had learned how to be in this space without disturbing it—without making it feel like he was trying to fix anything.

He went to the kitchen.

Hot water. Soap. Dishes. Rinse, dry, stack.

He cleaned in silence, as if each gesture meant something sacred. As if maybe, if he did it just right, the air might feel easier to breathe.

Then the floor—slow arcs of the mop across the tile, like a soft rhythm. Like he was reminding the room that it wasn't forgotten.

Time passed.

When he finished, he stood by the sink, his knuckles red from the water, hands resting on the counter, head bowed slightly. Just breathing.

He checked the pantry. Bread. Cereal. Then he opened the fridge. Expired milk. A wilted tomato.

Not enough.

He exhaled—softly, like a sigh that never made it all the way out.

Then, he reached into the pockets of his hoodie. When his hands came out, both were closed in fists.

Without saying anything, he crossed the room. Lifted one hand. Knocked on the bedroom door with his knuckles—soft, deliberate. Then used his shoulder to push it open.

“I brought you something,” he said, stepping inside.

He sat on the edge of the bed, slow, careful not to intrude. His fists still closed.

He looked at Jensen from under the blanket, silent. Then, without speaking, pointed to the left.

Jensen smiled. Opened both hands. Two chocolates. Always two. So whichever hand was chosen, it would still be a gift.

“I brought food, too,” he said softly. “Don't get up. I'll heat it.”

He didn't wait for an answer. Just left the room.

A few minutes later, he came back with two warm plates, the smell of roasted chicken and rice still rising faintly in the air.

Jensen sat on the floor beside the bed, back to the wall. He wasn't looking at anything. He just sat there, quiet.

The silence didn't press on them. It simply existed—undemanding, familiar. The kind that didn't need to be filled.

“I dreamed about you last night,” he said.

He said it like something fragile. Like if he spoke too loudly, it might stop being true.

He turned his head—just slightly. Listening.

“You were okay,” Jensen continued. “You were smiling.”

No reply. Just steady breathing. Calm. Almost like that version of him was still somewhere in reach.

Jensen glanced toward the desk. He didn't know why—maybe no reason at all.

He stood and walked over. The surface was cluttered: old receipts, scribbled notes, unfinished sketches.

He reached to straighten one, more out of impulse than intention.

That's when he saw it. A sliver of metal, wedged between two pages. A pocketknife.

His hand hesitated before closing around it.

He didn't speak. Not right away.

Behind him, he heard movement. Sheets shifting.

He didn't turn. Just stared down at the knife, thumb brushing its side, trembling.

“This was just here?”

His voice wasn't angry. Not even surprised. Just scared.

He had sat up slightly, watching. Their eyes met. Jensen didn't look away. He turned the knife over once, then closed his fingers around it and kept holding it.

“I don't think you meant to use it,” he said. “But I still wish I hadn't found it.”

No response. Just hands curled into the blanket. Tight. White-knuckled.

Jensen looked down again, the knife resting in his palm. His fingers trembled.

The silence that followed didn't feel cold or punishing. Just quiet. The kind of quiet where everything sharpens. Where there's no more pretending. Like something hidden had been pulled into the light.

Jensen sat back down on the floor, still holding the knife.

“I've been trying to figure out how to talk to you about this. For weeks.”

He pulled something from his back pocket—a small folded paper, worn around the edges.

“This is his name. He's a therapist. He's not just anyone—he's a friend of mine. Someone I trust.”

He held it in his hand for a moment, then leaned forward and placed it on the bedside table.

“I don't want to guess anymore,” His voice broke. “I want to know how you're really doing.”

Jensen looked back down at the knife—then tucked it into his pocket.

He met his gaze again.

“I'm scared,” he said, barely audible.

“I've been scared. For a long time.”