Isaac woke up mean.
Not angry. Not for any real reason. Just that cheap, sour kind of irritation that came from falling asleep in jeans on top of a blanket with one arm folded under him wrong.
His shoulder was dead. His mouth tasted like old pennies. The room had that late-afternoon heat where the air felt used already, like everybody else had been breathing it first.
He stared at the ceiling for a second, not moving.
A thin crack ran from one corner above his bed to the middle of the room. He'd been looking at it for years. It still hadn't fallen. He respected the commitment.
His phone was face-down near his pillow. His charger hung halfway off the milk crate he used as a nightstand. Across from him, his closet door sat open three inches because it never shut right unless you kicked it.
Same room. Same heat. Same silence.
Isaac dragged his good hand over his face and pushed himself up slow. Pins and needles lit his shoulder all the way to his fingertips.
"Great," he muttered. "Love that for me."
His voice came out rough and low, like he hadn't used it in a while.
He sat there a little longer, elbows on his knees, curls mashed flat on one side. Sweat cooled on the back of his neck. The sheet had twisted under him during the nap, and one of his socks was halfway off. He fixed it with his toes instead of bending down. Small victories.
The room smelled faintly like detergent, dust, and the fried onions from whenever somebody downstairs had cooked earlier. Through the window, traffic moved in waves. A bassline passed outside, then dissolved. Somebody yelled, somebody else laughed, and then it was just the hum again.
He checked his phone.
4:37 PM.
No missed calls. One group chat with thirty-one unread messages. One notification from a food app pretending he had money to "treat himself today."
Isaac snorted and tossed the phone back onto the bed.
He stood, stretched until his spine popped, then shuffled to the bathroom in the hall with the same blank, sleep-heavy expression people wore right before they remembered they had responsibilities.
The floor was cool under his feet. Better than therapy.
In the bathroom mirror he looked exactly how he felt: dented.
One side of his hair was flattened. Faint pillow lines crossed his cheek. His eyes looked darker right after sleep, more hollowed out, like somebody had shaded under them on purpose. He ran the tap, cupped water into his mouth, spat, then stared at himself again while the sink groaned.
Lean shoulders. Narrow waist. The kind of frame that made older men say things like you need to eat more, son, as if chicken and rice could turn him into a linebacker by next Thursday.
People saw him and made guesses. Sickly. Soft. Quiet because shy. Quiet because harmless.
It was always interesting, hearing what strangers thought silence meant.
He wet his hairline, pushed the curls back, then brushed his teeth with one eye half closed. Mint and cheap foam. Somebody upstairs dropped something heavy enough to rattle the light fixture. Isaac didn't even flinch.
Back in his room, he changed into a black T-shirt with the faded logo nearly peeled off and a pair of gray shorts. The shirt caught on his shoulder for a second, and irritation flashed again, bright and quick. He yanked it down harder than he needed to.
The kitchen was small enough that if two people were in it, one had to be sorry.
Sunlight came in through the window over the sink, thick and yellow, catching on dust and the chipped edge of the counter. A cereal bowl sat in the dish rack. Two forks in the sink. The fridge buzzed with the steady, tired sound of something hanging on out of spite.
Isaac opened it and stared inside like maybe food would appear out of embarrassment.
Half a gallon of milk. Eggs. Leftover rice in a plastic container. Some cut fruit in a bowl with foil over it. A bottle of hot sauce. Bread that was one day away from becoming an issue.
He took out the rice, smelled it, decided it still respected him, and set a pan on the stove.
The click-click-whoomph of the burner was louder than it should've been. He stood there with one hand on the counter while the rice heated, scratching absently at the inside of his wrist. He added a little oil, broke an egg into the pan, watched the white spread and catch.
Normal. Quiet. Safe.
That should've been enough.
But his brain never really shut up. Sleep only made it quieter, never empty.
What time had he even fallen asleep? Had he set an alarm and slept through it? Did he have anything he was supposed to do today? Probably. There was always something. A message to answer. A form to fill out. Somebody expecting more from him than he'd agreed to give.
The group chat buzzed again behind him in his room.
Then again.
Then once more.
He ignored it.
The egg spat oil onto his hand. He hissed, pulled back, then slid everything onto a plate. Rice, egg, hot sauce. Good enough. He leaned against the counter and ate standing up, because sitting down in the kitchen made it feel like he was committing to being there.
Outside, a siren started up somewhere distant.
Inside, the fridge buzzed. The pipe under the sink gave a tiny metallic tick. His fork scraped ceramic.
He liked sounds when they stayed honest.
Halfway through eating, he opened the fridge again and drank straight from the milk carton, eyes on the window. The building across from theirs had laundry hanging from one fire escape, a red shirt and two white towels stirring whenever the wind bothered to reach them. On the sidewalk below, a little kid in a green shirt was dragging a stick along a chain-link fence just to hear it chatter.
Normal human stuff. Everybody killing time until time killed something back.
Isaac rinsed his plate, left it in the rack, and went back to his room with his phone finally in his hand.
Thirty-six unread now.
He opened the group chat and regretted it immediately.
Ty: yo he alive???
Marlon: I told u he was sleep
Ty: at 4 in the afternoon??
Ty: depression hours
Marlon: ugly hours shut up
Ty: Isaac answer before I report u missing
Isaac stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Then he typed:
Still alive.
Barely.
Thanks for the concern, officers.
Ty answered almost instantly.
Ty: there he is
Ty: get dressed
Isaac frowned.
Isaac: I am dressed
Ty: not emotionally
Ty: u coming or not?
Marlon: 6 o'clock bro don't act brand new
Isaac read back through the messages. Plans. Right. They'd talked about meeting up earlier in the week. Somebody's cousin knew somebody hosting something, which already sounded like a bad sentence.
He rubbed his jaw.
Isaac: where
Ty: Marlon sent the address
Ty: wear something that doesn't look like you're attending your own arraignment
Isaac looked down at his gray shorts.
Harsh. Not inaccurate.
Marlon: and charge your phone this time
Marlon: last week was insane
Isaac: last week built character
Ty: last week made us walk six blocks for u
Isaac: cardio is important
He let the chat keep moving without him. Pictures started coming in. Ty holding up two shirts for no reason. Marlon sending a blurry selfie with half his forehead cut off. Somebody else asking who all was coming. Too many names, too much exclamation.
Isaac dropped the phone on his bed and exhaled through his nose.
He wasn't against going out. He just hated the part before, when plans were still soft and people kept acting like the night already owed them something. That's when things got stupid. Too much optimism, not enough exits.
He crossed to the window and pushed it open farther.
Warm air rolled in with the smell of concrete, car exhaust, and food from somewhere down the block. The sky had started shifting, the blue washing out at the edges. Evening on its way. The city loosening its collar.
From here he could see the corner store awning, the bus stop bench, the old woman on the third-floor balcony across the way watering plants like they'd personally disappointed her.
His phone buzzed again, but not from the group chat this time.
One message.
Unknown number.
Isaac's face changed before he even opened it. Not much. Just a little stiller. A little harder around the eyes.
The text was short.
you still live there?
He read it once.
Then again.
No typo. No name. No context. Just that.
A second bubble appeared under it.
Then another message came through.
I'm outside.