We didn't talk that night.
But the silence between us wasn't a wall—it felt like a thin thread.
I stood by the window in the living room. The city lights shimmered in the distance.
Everything in this house was large, heavy, excessive.
I remained small. On purpose.
I felt him behind me.
He didn't step closer—he stayed one step away.
"Did you sleep?" he asked.
"A little," I said. It was true.
Some nights needed calm more than sleep.
Silence returned.
Then slowly, almost unnoticed, he placed his hand on the edge of the window.
Just a few inches from mine.
He didn't touch me.
But his presence was unmistakable.
"Does staying here make you feel smaller?" he asked quietly.
I shook my head.
"No," I said. "What makes me smaller usually shouts. This place is just… quiet."
We stayed like that for a while.
Side by side, without contact.
"If you leave," he said finally, "I won't stop you."
I turned to him then.
There was no defiance in my eyes. No fear either.
"Staying," I said, "sometimes takes more courage than leaving."
His gaze softened.
For the first time in this house, something seemed to loosen.
He withdrew his hand.
But what lingered inside me was more lasting than any touch.