Three days pass.
The storm outside has long disappeared, leaving the neighborhood washed clean and strangely peaceful. But inside Adrian's apartment, nothing has changed.
The curtains remain closed.
The air still smells faintly of stale water and untouched food.
His blankets lie in a heap on the floor, cold and forgotten.
Adrian hasn't stepped outside since the blackout.
Not once.
The world feels too heavy.
His body too hollow.
His mind too loud.
He lies on the couch most days, staring at the ceiling, sometimes at the wall, sometimes at nothing. Time slips through him like water. He barely notices.
He eats the sandwich Mary left only because the hunger pangs became unbearable. The act felt mechanical bite, chew, swallow like watching someone else take care of a body he no longer feels connected to.
The soup container still sits by the door from the day she left it.
He hasn't touched it.
He hasn't thrown it away either.
It feels like a reminder that someone sees him.
Someone noticed his absence.
And that terrifies him almost as much as it comforts him.
Across the hall, Mary sits on her bed with her knees pulled up, staring at the door like it holds a test she hasn't studied for.
She has rehearsed what she'll say a dozen times.
You don't have to talk. I just wanted to check on you.
I made food. If you want it… it's yours.
Are you okay? No sorry. That's too much. Sorry. Ignore that.
Every version feels wrong.
Every version feels too intrusive.
Her thoughts spiral in familiar patterns.
He'll think you're weird.
He'll wonder why you care.
He'll push you away.
You ruin everything eventually.
She presses her hands together tightly until her fingertips go numb her old grounding habit.
For three days she's heard almost nothing from across the hall.
No footsteps.
No TV.
No clinking dishes.
Silence heavy and unsettling.
She bites her lip, heart racing.
She doesn't want to intrude.
But she knows that kind of silence.
Knows it too well.
Tonight, she decides, is the night she gathers the courage to knock.
Even if it costs her.
The hallway is quiet when she steps out, cradling a small container of homemade soup vegetable, the safest thing she knows how to make.
Her palms feel slick.
Her heart thunders in her chest.
Her breathing shortens until she has to press a hand to her ribs to steady it.
Three soft knocks.
Barely a whisper against the wood.
She hears nothing in return.
Mary tells herself this is a sign she should leave.
That she has done enough.
That he probably doesn't want to be bothered.
She turns slightly, readiness to retreat tightening her shoulders
Then stops.
Something inside her fragile but firm urges her to try again.
Two more knocks, gentler than the first, almost apologetic.
Her fingers tremble as she lowers her hand.
There is a rustle behind the door.
A slow shuffling sound.
Mary freezes.
Then, with the softest click, the lock turns.
The door opens just a few inches enough to reveal Adrian's face in the dim light of the hallway.
He looks exhausted.
Eyes hollow.
Skin pale.
Shoulders slumped as if gravity has doubled its weight just for him.
"…Hi," he whispers, voice cracked from days of disuse.
The word feels fragile, like if he speaks any louder, he might break.
Mary swallows hard, lifting her chin even though she wants to hide behind her sleeves.
"Hi," she echoes softly.
They stare at each other in the kind of silence that feels too intimate for strangers.
Mary clears her throat.
"I – um - brought soup," she says, holding out the container with both hands. "You don't have to talk or anything. Just… take it. If you want."
Her voice shakes on the last word.
Adrian hesitates.
His gaze flicks from the container to Mary's face.
She looks nervous, almost scared.
But her eyes are gentle, hesitant, but sincere.
Finally, he reaches out and takes the soup with both hands, as though accepting something fragile.
The warmth from the container seeps into his palms, startling him.
He didn't realize how cold he was until now.
He swallows.
"Why are you helping me?" he asks quietly.
Not accusing.
Not angry.
Just confused.
Tired.
Mary's eyes dart downward.
Her hands retreat into her sleeves like she's trying to hide inside them.
"…Because I know what it's like not to eat for a while," she murmurs.
"I know what it's like to feel… alone."
Her voice breaks, and she shuts her eyes for a moment, embarrassed by her own vulnerability.
Adrian watches her carefully.
For the first time, he sees something unspoken beneath her shyness
a familiar shadow,
a quiet ache,
a heaviness she tries to mask with politeness and distance.
Pain recognizes pain.
Adrian's breath comes out uneven, but he forces the smallest smile.
A faint curve at the corner of his mouth.
Not out of happiness.
Out of gratitude he can't articulate yet.
Mary notices, and the tension in her shoulders softens just slightly.
She steps back, giving him space.
"I won't bother you," she says quickly, as if afraid of overstaying. "I just… don't disappear. Okay?"
The plea is soft.
Desperate in its own quiet way.
Not demanding, but full of fear she doesn't hide fast enough.
Adrian feels something twist in his chest.
Not guilt.
Not shame.
Something like being seen.
He can't promise he won't disappear not when every day feels like wading through sinking sand.
But he can nod.
And he does.
Mary exhales shakily, relief warming her features.
She takes one more step back, then another, her fingers still curled into her sleeves.
"I'll… um… check on you tomorrow. If that's okay."
Adrian opens his mouth, closes it, then tries again.
"Yeah," he whispers. "It's okay."
Mary nods too fast, cheeks warming.
Then she turns back toward her door, fumbling with her keys.
Inside her chest, her heart continues its frantic rhythm but beneath it, beneath the fear and doubt, something quieter pulses.
Hope.
Connection.
The fragile beginning of something she doesn't have a word for yet.
Adrian closes his door gently, leaning his forehead against it for a long moment.
The soup warms his hands.
The note inside it warms something deeper.
He didn't ask for help.
He didn't think he deserved it.
But someone cared anyway.
Someone saw him.
Across the hall, Mary presses her back to her own door, eyes squeezing shut as she tries to breathe through the anxiety that always comes after vulnerability.
Her chest rises and falls unevenly.
But she's smiling just a tiny, trembling smile.
She heard his voice today.
Not the broken whisper from the night of the storm.
Not the silence of the past three days.
But something new.
Something faintly alive.
She clings to that sound.
Because if he can still say "hi," then maybe he can stay.
Maybe he can try.
Maybe she can too.
And between their two apartments between the silence, the fear, the fracture and the ache
a fragile thread ties them together.
Not strong.
Not steady.
But real.
A lifeline neither of them expected.
A lifeline neither of them knows how to hold yet.
But for now, it is enough.