Val had not slept.
Not even for a moment.
Her head throbbed, her eyes burned, and her body felt like an empty shell she was piloting on instinct alone. Hours passed in a blur of restless pacing and sitting and standing and pacing again. The walls felt too close, the ceiling too low, every shadow a reminder of how spectacularly she'd wrecked her own night. Sometime after the worst of the drunken nausea passed, she'd stood in the centre of her living room with her hands trembling at her sides and whispered to herself:
Fix this. You have to, just fix... something.
So she cleaned.
Not because it needed doing—nothing in her apartment ever reached the point of real mess—but because she needed movement, distraction, anything. She washed dishes that didn't need washing. Let the hot water run until her fingers pruned. Scrubbed the counters until her knuckles ached and her shoulders cramped. Vacuumed the carpet twice, even though it had looked fine to begin with.
None of it helped. Not really.
She showered until the water ran cold, forehead pressed to the tile, steam curling around her like ghosts of last night. But none of it scrubbed away the shame.
The shouting.
The drinking.
The way she'd pushed Elliot away.
And then calling her ex —
A full-body shudder ran through her, sharp enough that she had to grip the edge of the sink afterward just to steady herself.
He must think I'm a mess.
He wouldn't have been wrong.
She pulled on clean clothes; soft joggers, a hoodie, something comforting, and sat at her tiny table staring at her hands as if they belonged to someone else. They were shaking, faint but constant.
She needed to apologise.
Needed to say something that didn't sound like an excuse or a plea or a complete disaster tumbling out of her mouth. But the words… felt too heavy to speak out loud. Too fragile. Too easy to break.
So she grabbed a pen.
Her handwriting wavered slightly as she wrote:
Elliot,
I'm sorry for last night. Truly.
If you're willing… would you like to have breakfast with me?
Knock at 8:30. I'll have everything ready.
— Val
She read it twice, cheeks warming in embarrassment at her own trembling sincerity. Every line felt like peeling back a layer of armour she wasn't sure she should be taking off. Her heart pounded at every word, loud in her ears like a drum.
Before she could overthink it, she slipped quietly into the hallway, cold floor against bare feet, and knelt to slide the note under his door. It disappeared with a soft whisper against the floorboards.
She exhaled shakily.
Pancakes, she decided. Something warm. Gentle. Something that said what she couldn't say properly yet.
She opened her fridge.
Empty.
No eggs. No fruit. No syrup. Just a sad tub of butter with a dented lid and a container of leftover noodles she'd been avoiding for two days.
"Great," she muttered. "Real prepared, Val."
She checked the time: 6:03 AM.
The convenience store two streets over was open. She could be there and back quickly, before the city woke, before her nerves had time to unravel again.
She tied her hair into a messy bun, threw on her coat, grabbed her keys and credit card, and stepped into the cool morning air.
The sky was barely waking; a pale, sleepy grey stretched thin over the horizon. The streetlights buzzed. A single pigeon hopped along the curb. The world was quiet in the way she wished her mind could be.
Inside the store, she moved quickly, mechanically, gathering what she needed: eggs, strawberries, bananas, maple syrup, milk. A list forming itself instinctively in her head, steadying her.
The cashier gave her a tired smile, and she returned a faint one, small, apologetic, grateful for the normalcy.
Everything felt strangely calm as she stepped back outside. The bag was warm against her chest. The morning air nipped at her cheeks. For the first time since last night, she felt the tiniest thread of hope tug at her ribs.
Maybe today could be better.
She started walking home, her steps slow, deliberate.
A cyclist streaked past her, too fast, tires hissing over the damp pavement.
A truck turned the corner at the same moment.
Time fractured.
The cyclist swerved —
the truck swerved harder —
brakes screeched —
and the world exploded in sound.
Something slammed into her. Hard.
Her feet left the ground.
Air vanished from her lungs.
The pavement rose to meet her, cold and unyielding.
Darkness swept across her vision like ink bleeding over paper.
The cyclist shouted. A dog barked. A woman screamed.
The truck driver stumbled out, voice shaking as he called for an ambulance.
Val did not move.
She did not speak.
She did not wake.
Elliot hadn't slept either.
He'd tried; he turned off the light, lain still, counted silently, breathed the way Dr. Harper taught him, but his mind had replayed every second of the previous evening like a scratched disc.
Val's voice.
Her sadness.
Her sharp dismissal.
And the man shouting outside her door.
His chest tightened remembering the fear in her voice. The way she'd sounded like someone he didn't know how to help. The guilt gnawed at him, sharp and relentless.
Exhaustion won at some point; not sleep, just surrender. A couple of hours later, he got up and showered, letting the warm water anchor him back in his body.
When he stepped out, toweling his hair, he froze.
A slip of paper lay on the floor inside his apartment.
Someone had pushed it under.
He picked it up, carefully unfolding it with damp fingers.
Her handwriting.
Her words.
Something inside him loosened.
Something warm.
Something hopeful, small but real.
His breath came out shaky; steadying him from the inside.
He made coffee.
Put on clean clothes.
Tried not to stare at the clock every thirty seconds.
When the numbers flipped to 8:29, he stood.
When they turned to 8:30, he stepped into the hallway and knocked gently on her door.
No answer.
He waited. Counted the seconds. Knocked again.
Silence.
A tiny frown creased his forehead as he shifted his weight. He tried a third time, louder now.
"Val?"
Nothing.
A thin, icy thread of worry pulled tight in his stomach.
He pressed his ear lightly to the door; listening, straining.
No footsteps.
No movement.
No soft rustle of sheets or someone stirring awake.
Just... nothing.
"Val...?" His voice was smaller now, barely more than a breath. "It's eight thirty. You said…"
Silence deepened around him.
His pulse climbed into his throat.
Something wasn't right.
Something was wrong.
He stepped back, rubbing his palms against his jeans, hands trembling.
What was he supposed to do?
Knock harder?
Wait?
Call her name until the neighbours complained?
He swallowed hard, chest tight enough to ache.
Please answer… please…
But the apartment stayed silent.
And Elliot, his heart pounding with sickening dread, stood alone in the hallway knowing, with awful certainty, that something terrible had happened.