They don't move at first.
Mary stands in her doorway, gripping the frame like it's the only thing keeping her upright. Adrian remains in the hall, his back against the wall, holding the empty soup container as though it suddenly feels foolish to be carrying it around but too important to let go of.
Their names drift between them like steam slowly cooling in cold air.
Mary.
Adrian.
Simple.
Soft.
Too intimate for two strangers who barely know how to stand without shaking.
The moment should end. Someone should walk away.
But neither of them does.
It's Adrian who breaks the silence.
"You said you… disappear sometimes," he says quietly. "What does that mean?"
Mary's stomach tightens.
The question is gentle, but her mind hears danger. Not from him but from what honesty might reveal.
She looks down at her hands, fingers picking at her sleeves.
"It means," she whispers, "that sometimes I stop being a person. I… sink into myself. Days pass and I don't leave the bed. Or I clean everything until I'm shaking. Or I forget to eat until it hurts."
Her voice shrinks.
"I'm not… stable."
Adrian's expression softens in a way that feels almost painful to look at like warmth she hasn't earned.
"I don't expect you to be," he murmurs.
Mary's chest tightens.
She didn't realize how much she needed to hear someone say that.
She braves a glance up.
Adrian is studying her not with pity, but with recognition. He sees her cracks. He has cracks too.
It's strange how comforting brokenness can be when it's shared.
"Can I tell you something?" he asks.
She nods once, barely.
"I almost didn't answer the door yesterday."
She swallows. "Why not?"
"Because I didn't want you to see me like that."
Mary almost laughs. Not because it's funny because it's familiar.
"That's how I feel every day," she admits. "Like I'm showing people the worst version of me, even when I try so hard to hide it."
He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well… I didn't think you'd bring me food. Thought it'd be someone complaining. Or… I don't know. Life hasn't been very kind lately."
Mary's gaze softens. "Mine either."
There it is. The truth laid bare in the dim hall.
Two people neither good nor bad just exhausted, bruised by life, trying not to fall apart where someone might see.
Adrian exhales a slow, shaky breath.
"Do you ever feel like… the world keeps moving without you? Like you're stuck in place while everything else goes on?"
Mary nods instantly too quickly.
"Yes," she says, voice thin. "Every week. Every year. Like I'm behind glass and everyone else is living."
Adrian closes his eyes for a moment, like her words hit somewhere tender.
"That's… exactly it."
Silence presses in again not uncomfortable, but heavy. A shared gravity.
Mary shifts her weight. "Can I ask you something too?"
"Sure."
"On the night of the storm… the blackout…"
Her pulse spikes.
She shouldn't say this.
She shouldn't.
But the words slip out anyway.
"I heard you."
His eyes flick to hers, startled.
She continues, quicker now, before fear can swallow the confession.
"You said you couldn't keep going."
Adrian goes still.
The hallway suddenly feels too small.
Too exposed.
Mary instantly regrets it. "Sorry - I shouldn't have -"
"No," he says, voice low. "It's okay."
She stops fidgeting, unsure.
Adrian looks away, jaw tightening. When he speaks again, his voice is softer than she's ever heard it.
"I meant it, Mary."
Her breath catches.
He's not saying it for attention.
He's not saying it dramatically.
He's saying it like a simple truth.
She steps forward before she realizes she's doing it.
"You're still here," she whispers.
He nods slowly.
"I don't know why," he admits. "Some days it feels easier to just… disappear."
Mary feels the floor tilt beneath her.
Because she knows that thought too well.
She's had nights where she stood in front of her bathroom mirror and didn't recognize the person looking back.
Nights where her mind whispered that she was a burden.
Nights where she wondered if anyone would notice if she simply stopped existing.
Her voice shakes.
"I'm glad you didn't."
Adrian meets her eyes, and for the first time since she's known him, something breaks fully open in his expression a raw fear, a raw longing.
"Why?" he whispers.
The question hits her like winter air.
She doesn't owe him an answer.
She barely knows him.
They are two strangers clinging to opposite sides of a thin wall.
But Mary says the truth anyway:
"Because I don't want to lose someone who knows what this feels like."
Something flickers in his eyes pain, gratitude, something fragile she can't name.
He whispers her name again, like it's something delicate he's afraid to crush.
"Mary…"
Her heart trembles at the way he says it.
She steps back, pulse racing.
"We should…" She swallows. "Talk again. Another time."
Adrian nods, slowly. "Yeah. Another time."
He turns toward his door.
Mary turns toward hers.
They both pause, hands on their doorknobs, like neither wants to break whatever thin, quiet thread holds them together.
Finally, Adrian speaks, barely audible:
"Thank you… for hearing me."
Mary closes her eyes.
"You're not invisible, Adrian."
And with that, they disappear into their separate rooms two fragile souls, both a little less alone than they were an hour ago.