Cardboard boxes tower in the corner like uneven monuments. One is labeled KITCHEN — FRAGILE in sharp, black letters. Another just says YOURS.

The radiator clanks. Somewhere outside, a car door slams.

On the couch, the laptop screen glows blue against your face. The cursor blinks on an empty document.

In the kitchen, his back is to you. Broad shoulders under a faded grey henley. His thumb moves slowly across his phone screen. He hasn't said a word in ten minutes.

The silence is its own language.