The apartment was wrapped in soft, golden light from the single lamp in the corner of the living room. Outside, the sky had darkened, the wind nudging the windows gently, but within the four walls above the garage, it felt like a different world.
John set the takeout bags on the coffee table with a thump and a satisfied grunt. The scent of sesame oil, soy sauce, and garlic filled the room like a warm embrace. "Alright," he said, pulling the cartons out and lining them up. "I may've gone overboard."
Sarah laughed softly, sitting cross-legged on one end of the couch, the fuzzy blanket draped over her lap. "There's enough food here to feed a family of six."
"Well," John shrugged, flopping down at the other end of the couch, "you've been eating like a bird, and I haven't eaten all day. Call it balance."
He handed her a pair of chopsticks and then, almost ceremoniously, held out the TV remote.
"Here," he said. "You're in charge. Put on whatever you want."
Sarah stared at the remote like he'd handed her a live grenade.
"…Seriously?"
John raised a brow. "Yeah, seriously. Don't tell me you're scared of a few buttons."
She took it slowly, holding it with both hands like she wasn't sure she was allowed. "I… I haven't picked a movie or show in years."
John paused with an egg roll halfway to his mouth. "What?"
Her voice was small. "He never let me. If I didn't like what he picked, he'd get angry. Said I didn't appreciate him, or I was trying to control things. So I just… stopped caring. Or pretended to."
John let the egg roll fall back into the container. "Christ."
She looked embarrassed. "It's just a remote. I know that sounds stupid—"
"It's not stupid," John interrupted, leaning forward. "It's not about the remote. It's about control. You're allowed to have opinions. Preferences. Hell, you're allowed to hate whatever movie we put on. We'll just turn it off."
She blinked at him, and something softened in her face.
John smiled. "Though, fair warning—I'll probably fall asleep before the credits roll."
Sarah let out a small, real laugh.
"There it is," John said, pointing. "I've been trying to get you to do that all day."
She rolled her eyes, shaking her head, but her smile lingered. She turned the TV on and started scrolling through options. "What do you like?"
"I'll watch anything. No shame. Rom-coms, action, documentaries about mushroom farming—just pick whatever looks good to you."
She raised a brow. "Even musicals?"
"…I'll tolerate musicals."
She chuckled, then settled on a cozy-looking drama she said she used to love but hadn't seen in years. Something about the way she whispered, "I used to love this one," made his chest ache.
They ate in silence for a while, the movie playing quietly. John leaned back, balancing a carton of lo mein on his knee.
After a few bites, he said softly, "You know, I really mean it—you deserve better than that asshole."
Sarah glanced over but didn't speak.
John stared at the screen, eyes unfocused. "My sister… Lilly. She dated a guy like that. Name was Mark. Smiled at everyone, held doors open in public. But behind closed doors? Different man. Controlling. Angry. He dimmed her. Slowly, over time. Like watching someone you love disappear one piece at a time."
Sarah lowered her carton. "What happened?"
John took a breath, exhaled slow. "I don't know all of it. She stopped talking about the fights. Would laugh things off. Hide bruises with makeup and long sleeves. Said I was overreacting every time I brought it up. I pushed once. Too hard. She kicked me out of her apartment."
A long silence passed.
"She's gone now," he said finally. "Been years. The cops couldn't prove anything. No charges stuck. Not enough evidence. He left town right after. Haven't seen him since."
Sarah turned toward him. "Do you think… he killed her?"
John didn't answer right away. He set his food down and rubbed his jaw.
"In my gut? Yeah. I do. But gut feelings don't hold up in court. They never found the evidence to prove it. So he walked. Free as a bird."
Sarah whispered, "That's awful."
"Yeah," John said. "It is."
Another pause stretched between them. The sound of two people not just sharing words, but weights.
"I hope he changed," she said softly.
John shook his head. "People like him? Maybe they soften around the edges to reel in someone new. But abusers don't change. They just find new victims."
He looked at her then, sharp but gentle. "And they don't get to win."
Sarah's eyes welled, but she blinked them back, nodding.
John leaned back again, more serious now. "You're not what he told you you were. You're not broken. You're not weak. You're not unlovable. And every time you pick something for yourself—even a movie—you're proving he didn't get to keep you."
She sat there for a long moment, breathing steady, eyes fixed on him like she was holding on to the truth of his words with everything she had.
Then she whispered, "Thank you."
John just nodded and reached for another egg roll. "Now let's see if this movie's any good or if I made a horrible mistake giving up the remote."
She grinned, settling deeper into the couch. "You did. But I'll try to be merciful."
"Great," John muttered. "So this is how it ends."
They laughed, and for a little while, the ghosts quieted.
And somewhere between a shared meal, the soft flicker of the TV, and a night that felt almost normal, the pieces began to fit—not back to how they were, but toward something new. Something safe.
The morning came in slowly, golden light spilling through the kitchen window like warm honey. The apartment was silent except for the low sizzle of bacon in the cast iron pan and the rhythmic clink of a metal spoon against a chipped mug.
John stood barefoot in the kitchen, hair a mess, wearing a worn grey T-shirt and plaid flannel pajama pants. He moved with quiet purpose—flipping bacon, cracking eggs into a bowl, sipping coffee that had been sitting just long enough to go bitter. He didn't mind. Mornings were quiet. Mornings were his.
He didn't expect to hear soft footsteps behind him.
He turned just as Sarah appeared, rubbing sleep from her eyes, wrapped in the fuzzy blanket she'd claimed the night before. Underneath, she wore another one of his old T-shirts—this one from some ancient rock band he barely remembered seeing live.
"Morning," she murmured, voice gravelly.
"Morning," John said, giving her a nod and motioning to the table. "Coffee's hot. Sit down, I'm making something that vaguely resembles breakfast."
She gave him a sleepy smile and shuffled to the table. "You didn't have to do this."
"Didn't say I was good at it," he muttered, pouring her a mug. "But I figured you earned a morning with food already made."
She inhaled the coffee steam and gave a soft hum. "It already smells better than anything I've had in months."
John returned to the stove, cracking the eggs into the pan. "I don't usually eat this early. Most mornings, I just mainline caffeine and forget food's a thing until my stomach yells at me."
"You're not the only one."
They sat across from each other a few minutes later, plates of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast between them. Sarah took a bite and let out a surprised noise.
"This is actually… good."
John raised a brow. "I told you I was decent. I didn't say inedible."
She laughed softly. "Well, I stand corrected."
They ate in quiet comfort for a while, the kind that only comes when words aren't necessary. John watched her out of the corner of his eye—how she looked more rested than she had since arriving, how she curled her fingers around the mug like it was the only thing grounding her.
Eventually, Sarah broke the silence.
"Your sister," she said softly. "Lilly."
John's chewing slowed. He swallowed, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, and nodded. "Yeah."
"She sounded like someone special."
"She was."
Sarah played with the handle of her mug. "Last night, when you talked about how she… started to disappear. That hit me. Harder than I thought it would."
John leaned back slightly in his chair, his face unreadable.
"I used to be loud," Sarah said quietly. "Funny, confident. I had friends. I wore clothes I liked. I dyed my hair pink once, just because."
She gave a ghost of a smile. "He hated it. Made me feel stupid. Said I was trying to get attention. So I dyed it back. Stopped wearing anything he didn't approve of. Stopped talking unless I was spoken to. One day, I looked in the mirror and couldn't remember the last time I did anything because I wanted to."
John's voice was low when he spoke. "That's what they do. They chip away at you—little by little—until there's nothing left but what they want."
Sarah nodded. "I think that's why your story about Lilly stayed with me. Because I know what that looks like. I know what it feels like to dim."
John was quiet for a moment, then looked her in the eye. "Lilly was fire. Bright, bossy, full of life. She never backed down. Not even from me. Especially not from me."
He smiled faintly. "She used to tease me constantly. Said I looked like I was going to explode if I didn't relax."
Sarah smiled. "She sounds like someone I would've liked."
"She would've liked you, too," John said softly. "She would've fought for you."
Sarah's expression grew serious. "Do you think you would've left if she hadn't been there? If you didn't have her?"
John looked down at his plate for a long moment. "No. I don't."
He looked up again, his gaze steady. "She pulled me through. We survived because we had each other. After she died… I didn't talk to anyone for months. I lost myself. Spent most of my nights in my truck. Got by fixing what I could for cash. Eventually, I pulled out of it, but… not really. Not all the way."
Sarah nodded, her fingers curling around the coffee mug again.
"Sometimes," John added, voice lower, "I still hear our parents yelling. Still flinch when a dish breaks. And I still wonder if I could've saved her, if I'd just done something sooner. Pushed harder. Stayed longer."
"She wouldn't want you blaming yourself."
"I know," he said. "But knowing and feeling aren't the same thing."
Another quiet moment passed between them.
Then Sarah asked, "Do you think it ever goes away? The guilt?"
John took a breath. "I think it fades. Not like a scar disappearing—more like… a bruise under the skin. It doesn't throb forever, but it never fully leaves you, either."
Sarah nodded slowly, letting the words settle.
"Thanks," she said softly. "For breakfast. For… everything."
John gave a small nod and stood, gathering their plates.
"Anytime."
She got up to help him wash dishes, and they stood side by side at the sink. It wasn't a grand gesture. It wasn't a dramatic moment. But it was something simple and true.
And in the soft clink of dishes and the comfort of shared silence, healing moved forward—quietly, gently, like the sun rising behind storm clouds.