Thursday arrived with a quiet clarity. The city felt softer somehow, as if the gray edges of the week had been polished by rain. Elliot moved through his apartment with the precision of habit: coffee first, oatmeal next, checking emails that had piled up over the past few days. The apartment was calm, the hum of the city through the windows a steady rhythm.
Noah arrived just as he finished breakfast, carrying bags of groceries. "Morning," he said lightly, sliding a loaf of bread toward him as he placed the groceries on the counter.
Elliot nodded, more relaxed than he had been all week. It was a strange sensation, calm without tension, a sense that the apartment wasn't a cage. Noah's presence no longer carried the same quiet anxiety of the weekend; it felt like a cushion he could lean on when necessary.
"You seem… lighter today," Noah remarked, unpacking fruit. "Sleep better last night?"
Elliot gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. "Better than Sunday," he admitted. It was true, he had slept, even if only fitfully, and he had woken without the familiar knot of dread pressing against his chest.
Noah smiled, finishing with the fruit. "Good. That's progress."
For a while, they moved through the morning in companionable silence. Noah tidied the kitchen while Elliot skimmed a report on his laptop, his routine grounding him. By Thursday, his journal lay open on the table in front of him, a pen poised but untouched, waiting patiently.
Finally, Elliot spoke, voice quieter than usual, almost hesitant. "Noah…"
Noah looked up, attentive. "Yeah?"
"I… I've been thinking," Elliot said slowly, eyes fixed on the floor. "I want to go out."
Noah's eyebrows rose, a mixture of surprise and encouragement in his expression. "That's… huge, Elliot. Where to?"
Elliot swallowed, a flicker of nerves crossing his face. "To my parents' graves. I… I think I need to… pay my respects. I haven't… I haven't been able to, not since the funeral."
Noah set his cup down and crouched slightly to be eye-level with him. "I'm proud of you for saying that," he said softly. "Really proud. It's a big step. And I'll go with you, if you want."
Elliot hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. Please."
The admission felt strange, uncomfortable, yet liberating. He had spent so many years containing himself, measuring every movement, every word. To allow himself to be vulnerable… it felt like crossing a border he had long feared.
Noah grinned faintly. "Friday morning then. We'll take it slow, step by step. No rush. I'll be right there the whole time."
A thin smile touched Elliot's lips. It was fleeting, fragile, but it existed. "Thank you," he murmured.
"You don't have to thank me," Noah said. "You're doing this for you. I'm just… honored I can help."
The rest of the day passed with a subtle undercurrent of anticipation. Elliot returned to work, tackling small tasks he had neglected, responding to emails, checking reports he had postponed. Each action felt slightly easier, lighter, as though the idea of stepping outside had loosened a weight he hadn't fully acknowledged.
Noah stayed until evening, ensuring Elliot had everything he needed for dinner. Even mundane routines felt significant now. Each act of normalcy, each quiet achievement, was a foothold on a climb he hadn't dared attempt in years.
As night settled, Elliot lingered by the window, looking out at the street below. The lights of the city shimmered in puddles, reflections of a world he had avoided for far too long. His parents' faces came to mind, soft, but real, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a strange anticipation rather than fear.
He turned back to the apartment, to the notebook that lay open on the table, and touched the pen lightly. Words didn't come yet, they never came fast, but he could imagine writing more. For now, the step outside would be the beginning.
And Friday would come.
Friday dawned crisp and clear. Elliot stood by the window, the early light catching the edges of buildings across the street. His apartment smelled faintly of coffee and toast. He had dressed carefully: muted colors, simple shoes, everything neat. Nothing to draw attention. Everything predictable. Everything safe.
Noah arrived promptly, carrying a small backpack. "Ready?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light, but there was a quiet tremor of anticipation in it.
Elliot nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. The act of stepping outside; the door handle under his fingers, the threshold under his foot, felt monumental. For years, his world had ended at this doorway.
Now, he was crossing it.
The streets were alive with the usual morning rush: people hurrying, the smell of roasted coffee beans and exhaust fumes mingling, the distant wail of sirens. Elliot pulled his noise-cancelling headphones over his ears before stepping onto the pavement. The sudden filter of sound softened the city to a low, muted hum. Breathing felt manageable again, controlled.
The journey was slow. They walked to the nearest train station, Elliot's steps careful, measured, as if he were calibrating himself to the outside world. Noah stayed beside him, silent, but present, matching his pace. The sound of the trains below vibrated through the platform; the scrape of boots against tiles, the shouts of conductors, the rumble of arriving cars. Elliot's fingers pressed against the headphones, anchoring himself in a private bubble of quiet.
The train ride itself was a blur of muted light and the occasional flicker of people. The rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks was oddly comforting, a steady heartbeat beneath the chaos. Elliot kept his gaze fixed on the window, focusing on the passing buildings, the trees, the occasional stray cat darting across a courtyard. Noah sat opposite, eyes on him, waiting for signs that he was coping.
When they arrived near the cemetery, the cool morning air hit Elliot's face. It smelled of damp earth and fallen leaves, a sharp, grounding scent. He tugged slightly at his headphones, leaving just enough sound for a distant hum of life around him, while keeping the city's chaos at bay.
The cemetery was quiet, a muted expanse of green and gray. Frost still lingered on the grass, and a thin mist curled between the gravestones. Elliot's breath formed small clouds that dissipated quickly. His heart pounded in his chest, not from fear exactly, but from the weight of this long-denied ritual.
Noah walked beside him until they reached the family plot. Then he stepped back slightly, giving Elliot space while remaining close enough to offer support. Elliot's hands trembled slightly as he reached the headstone. The names were etched cleanly, familiar, yet impossible to truly touch