Ariel learned to measure her days by silence.
Not the peaceful kind—
the kind that followed noise, after the world finished shouting and moved on to its next obsession.
She stayed inside more now.
The apartment became her shelter and her cage, its glass walls both protecting and exposing her. Outside, fans still gathered, hoping to catch a glimpse of a life they felt entitled to.
Inside, Ariel folded herself smaller.
She read comments less. Slept poorly. Learned which corners of the apartment felt safest when the weight of being known pressed too hard.
Jaxon noticed.
He always noticed.
They crossed paths in the kitchen just after midnight.
Ariel stood by the counter, staring blankly into a mug she hadn't touched.
"You're awake," he said.
"So are you."
He shrugged. "Sleep doesn't like me."
She smiled faintly. "It doesn't know me anymore either."
He leaned against the counter, keeping a careful distance.
"You don't have to stay hidden," he said.
"I do," she replied softly. "The world feels louder when I exist in it."
He understood that more than she expected him to.
They ate in silence—simple food, no cameras, no instructions. The absence of performance felt foreign.
"This is the part they never see," Ariel said suddenly.
"What part?"
"This," she gestured vaguely. "The quiet. The waiting."
Jaxon nodded. "They think fame is constant noise. They don't know how empty it can be."
She looked at him then—really looked.
For the first time, she didn't see the idol.
She saw a man who had been watched too long and understood too little.
Days passed.
A routine formed.
Morning distance.
Afternoon preparation.
Evening endurance.
At night, they shared small moments that belonged to no one else.
A movie watched in silence.
A conversation left unfinished.
Two people learning how to breathe in the same space without hurting each other.
"You don't act like a fan," Jaxon said one evening.
"I don't know how," Ariel replied.
"That's rare."
"So is being treated like a person," she said.
His expression softened.
One night, the power went out.
The city dimmed, lights flickering into temporary darkness. The apartment fell quiet, stripped of its glow.
Ariel froze.
"I don't like the dark," she admitted.
Jaxon hesitated, then turned on a small lamp powered by backup electricity.
"You're safe," he said.
The words settled between them, heavier than they should have been.
She believed him.
And that scared her.
Later, lying awake in her room, Ariel realized something unsettling.
The silence no longer frightened her.
Because somewhere beyond her door, someone else was awake too—someone who knew her name before the world did, and spoke it without expectation.
Quiet wasn't empty anymore.
It was becoming dangerous.