Silence settles between them.
Not an awkward silence.
Not a bored one.
A fragile, trembling kind of silence
like both of them are afraid the next word might shatter something they're not ready to lose.
Adrian sits on the edge of her couch, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles pale.
Mary sits on the floor across from him, knees tucked up, fingers picking at the sleeve of her sweater. It's the only way she knows to keep her hands steady.
She starts with something safe.
"How… are you feeling today?"
He huffs a soft laugh.
Not amused just tired.
"Better," he admits.
Then after a pause.
"Not good. But better."
Mary nods, her chest warming at the honesty.
Most people answer "fine."
Most people lie.
Adrian doesn't lie.
Not right now.
Not to her.
She forces herself to keep going.
"Did you sleep?"
His jaw shifts guilt, maybe.
"Eventually. Around… five."
"AM?"
He shrugs helplessly.
Mary doesn't judge.
She understands sleepless nights better than she understands peaceful ones.
"What about you?" he asks suddenly.
Her heart stutters.
No one asks her that.
Not really.
"I slept," she lies.
He tilts his head, studying her.
She looks away.
"Mary," he says softly, "you don't have to pretend."
Her breath catches.
The gentleness in his tone is disarming.
Dangerous, even.
She's used to people not noticing when she's unraveling.
She likes it that way.
But Adrian sees her.
And that is terrifying.
She tries to redirect the conversation.
"I didn't want to overwhelm you yesterday. Or push too hard. I just… wanted to make sure you were alive."
The words slip out quiet but raw.
Adrian's eyes soften.
A flicker of pain crosses his face.
Not embarrassment.
Recognition.
"Can I ask you something?" he says.
Mary nods hesitantly.
"When you said you… disappear sometimes."
His voice lowers.
"What does that mean for you?"
Her breath stops.
Her fingers freeze.
She hadn't expected him to remember that.
To notice the crack in her voice.
To care.
She swallows hard, staring at the floor.
"It means," she says carefully,
"that I… stop being a person for a while."
He listens.
Really listens.
She continues, her voice trembling even before the words do.
"I shut down. I don't talk. I don't answer texts. I don't open my curtains. I stay in bed and feel like I'm… dissolving. Like I'm watching someone else live my life from far away."
She laughs bitterly under her breath.
"It's stupid."
"It's not," Adrian says immediately.
She looks up surprised.
"It's not stupid," he repeats. "It's… real. And terrifying. And I get it."
Mary's throat tightens.
She had expected pity.
Or discomfort.
Not understanding.
Adrian looks down at his hands.
"When I disappear… I think it's easier for everyone if I'm not there."
Mary's breath shakes.
He continues quietly,
"Yesterday, before you knocked, I was… at the point where disappearing felt like the only option left."
The room feels thinner.
More fragile.
Like the walls are listening.
Mary's eyes sting.
Her voice breaks.
"Adrian… I'm really glad you didn't."
Adrian finally looks at her.
Not guarded.
Not closed off.
Just painfully, vulnerably human.
"I think," he whispers, "you're the reason I didn't."
Her breath catches.
Her heart aches.
Something inside her something cracked and scared leans toward his voice like a flower toward light.
But fear follows quickly behind.
"Don't put that on me," she whispers.
"You can't make me the reason you stay."
"I'm not," he says softly.
"I'm just… telling you the truth."
She presses her palm to her chest, trying to steady the pounding there.
It's too much.
It's not enough.
She wants to run.
She wants to stay.
She wants to wrap her arms around him and tell him he's not alone.
Instead she whispers:
"We're both trying. That's enough right now."
His eyes shine not with tears, but with a fragile sort of relief.
"Yeah," he murmurs.
"It is."
The silence that follows isn't heavy.
It isn't suffocating.
It's something else…
something careful
and warm
and painfully hopeful.
Two broken people, slowly realizing they don't have to stay broken alone.