The hallway feels colder than usual.
Maybe it's the bad lighting one bulb flickering like it's having second thoughts about staying alive. Maybe it's the draft coming from the broken window near the stairwell. Or maybe it's something else entirely… something heavier… the kind of chill that doesn't come from weather.
Mary stands in her doorway, fingers curling into her sleeve.
Adrian stands a few feet away, clutching the empty soup container as if it's proof he didn't disappear.
For a moment, neither speaks.
It's not silence it's something denser.
A pause weighted with unspoken things: exhaustion, hunger, fear, the things they've both been hiding from everyone else.
Adrian clears his throat first.
"I… wanted to return this."
His voice cracks, like he's forgotten how to talk to another person.
Mary notices. She notices everything.
Her heart flutters painfully. "You… didn't have to bring it back right away."
"Yeah." Adrian shifts, the plastic container trembling slightly in his hand. "But I didn't want to just… leave it there. I wanted to say thank you."
There it is gratitude. Soft. Real.
The kind that makes something in Mary's chest ache.
She forces her expression to stay neutral, gentle.
Not too warm, warmth can scare people.
Not too cold, cold can push people away.
A perfectly measured, fragile middle.
"You're welcome," she murmurs. "I'm glad you… ate."
Adrian lowers his head at that, embarrassment tightening his shoulders. "Yeah. I guess I needed it more than I thought."
He gives a shaky laugh, but it dies quickly.
His eyes look bruised. His clothes hang loose. His skin is pale under the sickly hallway light.
Mary watches him the way someone watches a wounded animal wandering near a road careful, afraid to move too fast, terrified of making things worse.
She swallows.
"I… worry sometimes."
Adrian's gaze lifts slightly, just enough for her to see confusion cross his face.
"About me?"
Her fingers twitch. She nods, though her eyes drift to the floor.
"I notice things," she says softly. "I don't mean to. I just… do."
Adrian stiffens, the word notice sparking a flash of panic behind his eyes.
"Like… what?"
Mary wishes she could lie.
But she's tired of lying.
Masks are exhausting when you wear them every hour of every day.
So she speaks honestly, though her voice is barely above a whisper.
"That you don't go outside much. That sometimes you don't turn on the lights until late. That the delivery guy knocks and you don't answer. That you…" She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "That you sound sad sometimes."
Adrian looks like someone just peeled away a layer of skin.
"Sound sad?" he repeats, voice raw.
Mary nods.
She remembers that night too clearly the storm shaking the building, the blackout swallowing the hallways in darkness, and that voice…
"I can't do this… I can't keep going like this."
It carved itself into her like a scar.
She can't tell him that.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
So she just says, quietly.
"I hear… things through the wall."
Adrian's shame is immediate. He presses a hand to the back of his neck, eyes dropping.
"Great," he mutters. "So you probably think I'm pathetic."
The instinct to reach out physically, emotionally hits her like a wave.
But Mary never reaches out first.
Touch is dangerous. Connection is dangerous.
Caring is dangerous.
Still… she lets her voice soften.
"I don't think that."
He looks up.
"I think you're hurting," she continues. "And that's different."
Adrian turns his head slightly, like he's trying to hide the reaction in his eyes but not quickly enough. Mary still sees it.
A crack.
A tremble.
A flicker of grief.
He leans back against the wall, exhaling like he's been holding his breath for days.
"So you're… what? A good Samaritan? A kind neighbor checking in?" His voice is tired, not accusing just confused. "Why are you doing any of this?"
Mary hesitates.
The truth is sharp, but she offers it anyway.
"Because I know what it's like to feel alone," she whispers.
The light flickers above them, briefly plunging the hall into half-darkness.
Adrian studies her really studies her for the first time.
He sees the tension in her shoulders.
The way her sleeve is stretched from her pulling and twisting at it.
The subtle tremble in her hands she keeps trying to hide.
It hits him then.
She isn't a savior.
She isn't someone with everything together.
She's not even confident.
She's just another person drowning quietly.
"Are you… going through something too?" he asks carefully.
Mary's instinct screams lie.
Smile. Pretend. Stay invisible.
But she is so tired of pretending.
So she whispers.
"I have… bad days. Sometimes bad weeks. Sometimes I disappear too."
The hallway holds its breath.
Adrian straightens slightly, looking at her with a softness she's not used to gentle, wounded understanding.
He speaks her name for the first time.
"Mary."
Her breath catches.
"Yeah?"
He swallows.
"Thank you."
Two simple words.
But they land with the weight of confession.
She nods quickly, not trusting herself to speak.
Adrian shifts the container from one hand to the other, then clears his throat.
"Would you… maybe… want to eat together sometime? When I'm… uh… better at it?"
Mary freezes, pulse slamming against her ribs.
She should say no.
Her therapist would probably tell her to say no.
Boundaries. Emotional safety. Protect yourself.
But Adrian looks like someone trying desperately not to fall apart in front of her.
And something in her something she thought was dead stirs.
She forces the word past her lips.
"…Yes," she breathes. "When you're ready."
Adrian nods.
She nods.
And for a moment, the hallway doesn't feel so cold anymore.