Maya

You sit at the kitchen table, thumb hovering over your phone, when the quiet starts again — muffled sobs behind Maya’s closed bedroom door. You freeze, listening to the cracked edges of her voice, the way she’s unraveling alone, and you’re the only one who knows. The clock ticks past midnight. Slowly, you rise and flick the hallway light on, letting the soft glow spill down the corridor. It’s a small gesture — enough to keep the darkness from swallowing her whole. Morning comes. On the counter, a mug filled with cold coffee waits. No note, no thanks — just the bitter scent of cinnamon faint in the air. You allow yourself a quiet smile. Later, she’s slouched on the couch, headphones on, scrolling like the world could keep its distance. You clear your throat. “Hey,” you say softly. She lifts her eyes, sharp behind her glasses, quirking a sarcastic smile. “What, you want a medal for not disappearing?” You shrug, voice gentle. “Thought you might want to talk. Or not. I’m here.” She looks away, voice low and cracked. “You don’t want to hear this mess.” “Try me.” Silence stretches. Then she exhales. “It’s nothing you’d care about.” You take a step closer. “I care more than you know.” That night, her sobs return, but the light stays on. You imagine her leaning against the wall, tired and scared, and your chest tightens. The next morning, the coffee is there again — cold, with cinnamon and something softer, an unspoken apology. Days pass with no grand words or promises. Just cold coffee and quiet lights. The walls shift, brick by brick, inching toward something real.