Elliot didn't sleep that night, but it was a different kind of wakefulness. Not the panicked, electric insomnia that clawed at him until dawn, but a quiet, heavy sort of awareness. He sat at his desk, the small leather notebook Dr. Harper had given him resting in front of him, unopened. The lamplight painted soft amber shadows across the cover, daring him to begin.
He wanted to write. He even picked up the pen once or twice, fingers trembling faintly — but as soon as the tip touched the paper, his throat would tighten, his mind flooding with static. Every sentence began with Dear… and ended in silence.
By two a.m., he gave up. He pushed the notebook aside and closed his laptop. The city outside hummed — distant traffic, the occasional siren — all the small, predictable noises that used to comfort him. Now they just reminded him that the world kept moving without him.
When morning came, he brewed coffee and stood by the window, watching sunlight crawl up the side of the neighboring building. Somewhere below, a woman laughed — sharp, carefree, alive. He couldn't tell if it was Val, but the sound still pricked at him.
He hadn't seen her since she'd rushed off the morning before, her guilt practically trailing behind her. And though he'd told himself it was none of his concern, that he didn't care, her absence across the hall felt… strange.
He shook it off, sat down at his desk, and opened the notebook again. Just one word, he told himself. One line.
The pen hovered. Then he wrote:
> "I don't know how to do this."
He stared at it for a long time. It wasn't much. But it was a start.
---
Across the hall, Val was waiting by her phone, nerves prickling under her skin. She'd showered, done the dishes, even taken out the trash — all small victories, all things she hadn't done in weeks without prompting.
The café manager had said she'd call by the end of the week, and now it was Friday. Val told herself not to check her phone again, and then did anyway. Nothing.
She groaned, flopping back on the couch. Her apartment looked different now that it was quiet. Not just empty, but almost… honest. The clutter was gone, the air fresher. Without the constant pulse of music or chatter, she could actually hear herself think.
She didn't always like what she heard.
Her mind wandered back to her dad — how he'd hated to see her give up after failed auditions, how he'd always said she was "too good to quit." It had been easier to pretend he was wrong than admit how much it hurt when he wasn't around to say it anymore.
The memory ached.
The soft ping of her phone startled her. A message from an unknown number:
Hi Val, this is Clare from Willow & Birch Café. We'd love to offer you the position — part-time to start. Can you come in Monday at 9 for training?
She blinked at the screen, reread it twice, and then let out a shaky laugh.
She got the job.
For a moment, she just sat there, the smile forming slowly, genuinely. No music, no champagne. Just relief.
Then, inevitably, her eyes flicked toward the hallway. Toward his door.
She hadn't seen Elliot since the morning she saw Noah's friend come by. She wanted to at least check if he was okay. But after what had happened, after the way she'd pushed him too far, she didn't think he'd want to see her.
Still, the thought wouldn't let go.
---
That afternoon, Elliot finally opened his front door for the first time in weeks. Only a fraction, only for a moment — but it was enough. He had ordered some noise cancelling headphones which had just been delivered. He received the package then quickly retreated. The hallway air felt strange against his skin, too open.
He shut the door fast, pulse racing. He knew it was ridiculous — the space between his door and hers was less than two meters, and yet it felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.
When the knock came a few minutes later, he froze.
Three short taps. Hesitant.
"Elliot?"
Her voice.
He considered ignoring it. Pretending not to be home. But something in her tone — soft, uncertain — made him pause.
"What is it?" he asked through the door.
"I just wanted to… check you're okay."
He sighed. "I'm fine."
A beat of silence. Then she said quietly, "You don't sound fine."
That got to him. He hesitated, fingers hovering near the lock, but didn't open it.
"I'm working," he said instead.
"Right." Her voice dropped, gentler now. "I, um… I got a job."
That startled him enough to open the door halfway. She stood there, looking nothing like the whirlwind he'd first met — no sequins, no dramatic eyeliner. Just jeans, a grey sweater, and tired eyes that were surprisingly kind.
"That's good," he said.
She smiled awkwardly. "Thanks. I just thought… you should know. Since, you know…"
"Since I insulted you," he finished for her.
Val winced but didn't deny it. "Yeah. That."
Elliot studied her for a long moment. "You didn't have to tell me."
"I know," she said, and there was something raw in her honesty. "But I wanted to."
He nodded once, a small acknowledgment, then said, "I'm glad you did."
The quiet stretched between them. Not hostile, but cautious — like two people learning the edges of something fragile.
Finally, Val took a step back. "Anyway. I should let you get back to work."
She turned to leave, and before he could stop himself, he said, "Val."
She glanced over her shoulder.
"I wasn't… fair that day," he said slowly. "I said things I shouldn't have."
Her brows lifted slightly, surprise flickering in her eyes. "You mean when you called me a jobless party girl?"
He grimaced. "Yeah, that."
She smiled then — not mocking, just soft. "You weren't wrong, though, that's what I was."
He didn't have an answer for that. She gave a small wave and slipped back into her apartment, leaving him staring at the closed door.
For reasons he couldn't explain, the air in the hallway didn't feel quite as suffocating this time.
---
That evening, he sat at his desk again, the notebook open to a blank page. The words came slower this time, but steadier.
You wouldn't like the person I've become.
I don't go outside anymore. I don't drive. I don't talk much either. It's quiet here, but it's not peace. I think it's hiding.
He paused, pen hovering. The next line came before he could stop it.
I miss you every day. But I'm starting to think maybe missing you and refusing to move on aren't the same thing.
He closed the notebook and exhaled, the sound shaking.
Outside, rain began to fall, tapping softly against the windows. He let the sound fill the room, slow and steady.
For the first time in two years, he didn't flinch at the storm.
---
Val sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, watching a tutorial on how to balance trays without spilling drinks. She practiced with a book and two mugs of water, laughing quietly when she nearly dropped one.
For once, she wasn't performing for anyone. She was just trying.
Between practice rounds, her gaze drifted to her door. She wondered what Elliot was doing — if he'd eaten, if he'd slept.
She didn't know why she cared, not really. But she did. Maybe because she understood the feeling of being stuck — of life slipping sideways until you barely recognized yourself.
She sighed, lying back on the bed, eyes tracing the ceiling. "Trying to start over is tough," she murmured to the wall.
It felt strange, talking to someone she wasn't sure could hear her. But comforting too.
---
Saturday came quiet and gray. Dr. Harper's next visit was scheduled for Monday, which left Elliot with two full days of nothing to distract him but himself.
He cleaned. Not out of compulsion, but because it felt like a way to breathe. He vacuumed, dusted, rearranged the books on his shelf. Every small task felt like reclaiming a piece of himself.
By noon, he caught himself humming under his breath — a habit he hadn't realized he'd lost.
Then, across the hall, he heard Val singing. Off-key, cheerful, unguarded. The melody was from some pop song he half-recognized.
He froze, listening. It was ridiculous, but the sound made him smile — just a little.
---
That night, Val wrote in her own notebook — a cheap spiral-bound one she'd bought at the corner store. She wasn't much of a writer, but she tried anyway.
I think I'm scared, she wrote. Scared of being ordinary. Scared that if I stop pretending everything's fine, I'll disappear. But maybe being real is better than being liked.
She stared at the words, uncertain what to do with the lump in her throat. Then she smiled faintly and set the notebook down.