The evening light was low and gold, slanting through the blinds of Elliot's apartment. The coffee from that morning still sat cold and untouched on the counter. Noah leaned against the edge of the kitchen island, watching his friend hunched over the desk.
Elliot hadn't spoken in hours. He'd gone through the motions of his day; answered a few emails, skimmed some contracts, made notes, but his hands moved mechanically, his eyes distant. Every so often, his pen paused mid-line, his jaw tensed, and he'd start again as if trying to erase the thought itself.
Noah sighed quietly. He'd seen this version of Elliot before — brittle and quiet, like glass under pressure.
When the clock hit five, he finally pushed off the counter and walked over. "You haven't eaten all day."
Elliot didn't look up. "I'm not hungry."
"Elliot," Noah said softly.
The sound of his name made him flinch, just slightly. "I said I'm fine."
Noah crouched a little beside him, resting one hand on the back of the chair. "You're not fine. You've been stuck in your head since this morning. What happened with Val —"
"Don't," Elliot cut in, sharper than he intended.
Noah didn't back off. "You scared her, El. And you scared yourself too, didn't you?"
Elliot's fingers tightened around his pen until it creaked. "I was trying to help."
"I know." Noah's tone was calm, patient. "But it didn't come out that way."
For a long moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the muted city noise beyond the walls.
Elliot exhaled shakily, his voice rough when he spoke. "She just— she doesn't think. She lets people in without — without knowing them. It's dangerous."
"Maybe," Noah said carefully. "But you can't protect her. She's a grown woman and she's not your responsibility."
Elliot shook his head, frustration flickering. "You don't get it. I've seen what happens when you trust people too easily. They disappear. They leave. They —" His voice caught on the last word. "She doesn't see the risk. None of you do."
Noah studied him quietly, then said, "Or maybe you don't see that not everyone lives in fear."
Elliot went still.
The words hung between them — not cruel, but true in a way that hurt.
He turned away, rubbing the heel of his palm against his temple. "You think I like this?" he asked quietly. "You think I enjoy being trapped in here, watching the world happen through a door?"
"No," Noah said softly. "I think you're doing your best to survive it."
Something cracked then — small, invisible, but deep. Elliot's shoulders trembled once before he straightened, swallowing hard. "I just — I don't understand people. I never have. Everyone says things they don't mean, act in ways that don't make sense; and somehow I'm always the one who's wrong for not keeping up."
Noah's chest tightened.
"When we were kids," Elliot went on, his voice low and raw, "I used to watch everyone at lunch. The way they laughed, how they just… knew what to say. I'd try to copy it, but it never worked. People could tell I was wrong somehow — too stiff, too quiet. My mother used to say I'd find my rhythm when I grew up, but I never did."
He blinked hard, eyes glistening. "It's like there's this invisible rulebook everyone else got and I didn't. And I've been pretending for years that I'm fine not having it."
Noah reached out, resting a steady hand on his friend's arm. "El…"
Elliot let out a shaky breath, then laughed bitterly. "And then she shows up. Loud, chaotic, unpredictable — everything I can't handle — and somehow she's the one I keep thinking about. She drives me insane, Noah. I don't even like her."
"Are you sure about that?" Noah asked quietly.
Elliot froze. The question landed like a quiet echo in the air.
He didn't answer.
Noah stood after a moment, giving him space. "You don't have to figure it out tonight," he said. "Just… don't punish yourself for caring, alright? You're allowed to feel things, even if they don't make sense yet."
Elliot turned his face away, blinking rapidly. "I said things I shouldn't have."
"I know. So apologise. When you're ready."
He nodded faintly, staring down at his journal on the desk. The pen lay across the open page, a half-written sentence staring back at him:
Some things aren't danger. They're just unfamiliar.
He hadn't meant to write it. But now it looked like truth.
Noah gave his shoulder a light squeeze before heading toward the kitchen. "I'm making dinner. You're eating something, even if I have to hand-feed you."
Elliot managed a small, watery smile. "You'd be terrible at that."
"Probably," Noah said, already pulling out a pan. "But I'm still doing it."
The sound of sizzling oil soon filled the quiet apartment, soft and grounding. Elliot stayed at the desk, staring at the page, tracing the edge of his notebook with his thumb.
He thought about Val's laughter echoing down the hall. About her voice when she was angry — sharp, alive, real.
He thought about the way his chest had ached watching her walk away.
It terrified him.
But it also, faintly, felt like being alive again.