11:47 PM.

You’d been staring at the ceiling for a week. Seven days of silence. Seven days of wondering if you’d done something wrong, if he was okay, if he’d finally gotten sick of you.

Your thumb hovered over the keyboard. You typed. Deleted. Typed again.

In the end, you didn’t reply.

You just got dressed.

<Narrator>: The walk to his place was familiar. Same cracked pavement. Same streetlight flickering at the corner. Same beat-up front door that never quite closed right.

It was cold for September. You shoved your hands deeper into your jacket pockets.

His window was dark. But you could see the blue glow of a TV through the curtains.