The room holds its breath. Dim light pools in soft golden circles, leaving the corners in shadow.

My gaze stays fixed on the box—on the melting cream leaking from its edges, dripping slow and quiet. Each drop a small surrender to the warmth it cannot escape.

Then a shuffle. Paper against marble. Another note slides beneath the door. The edge catches the light—white, thin, impossibly patient.

I take it. My fingers hesitate for a moment—reluctant, like they don’t want to be part of this. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝒆𝒘𝙚𝓫𝙣𝙤𝒗𝙚𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

I don’t know which flavor you like. I hope you like this one. It’s vanilla.

Vanilla.

The words sit in my palm. Simple. Unassuming.

Like he didn’t just spend minutes choosing them. Pressing too hard. Writing carefully. Starting over.

"Do you think I’m a child?" My voice comes out quiet. Not sharp anymore. Just tired. "Bringing me ice cream like I’m five years old?"

Another note slides in. Patient. Unhurried.

It might make your mood better.

I stare at the words.

It might.

"What if it doesn’t?"

A beat.

The shadow beneath the door shifts—just slightly, like he’s rearranging his knees. Thinking.

Another note.

I’m sure it will.

"Let’s see if it works."

My hand reaches for the box. The cardboard is cold—damp with condensation, slick beneath my fingers. The cold seeps into my skin, travels up my wrist, settles somewhere beneath my ribs.

I take the spoon from the lid. Small.

I open the lid.

The scent of vanilla rises—soft, creamy, innocent. It fills the space between the door and my body, wrapping around me like something I didn’t know I was missing.

I don’t like sweet things. I never have. Sugar was never my escape. Only whiskey was. The burn. The haze. The forgetting.

But I take the spoon anyway. Dip it into the pale cream. Lift it to my lips.

The sweetness melts on my tongue. Cold. Soft. Gentle in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

The vanilla spreads slowly—lingering, unhurried. It coats my mouth, my throat... the empty spaces inside me I didn’t know were hungry.

It’s good.

I’ve never tried this before. Not when the pressure builds behind my eyes. Not when my mood curdles into something sharp and bitter.

My routine has always been different. The club. The whiskey. The dim lights. The noise.

Drinking until my mind goes blank. Until the voices fade. Until there’s nothing left but the thrum of alcohol in my veins—and the promise of waking up empty.

But this—

This is different.

I take another spoonful.

Not bad.

Another note slides beneath the door.

Did you like it?

"No."

I take another spoonful. The cold sweetness fills my chest—spreads through me like something alive, something waking up after a long sleep.

A teasing smile spreads across my lips. I can feel it forming—slow, reluctant, almost foreign on a face that’s forgotten how to make this shape.

"It’s not good."

Another note.

I’m sorry. I thought you would like it.

How foolish is he?

Saying sorry again when he’s done nothing wrong.

My smile widens. The ice cream is melting faster now, pooling at the bottom of the box, turning soft and liquid.

"Shouldn’t you be angry?"

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. They hang in the air—suspended, waiting.

A pause. Then a note slides in.

Why?

I stay silent for a long moment. The ice cream drips from the spoon, falling back into the box in slow white drops.

"Did you hear what my father and I talked about?"

No movement from the other side of the door. No shuffle of paper. No shadow shifting in the thin gap of light.

"Answer me honestly."

A minute passes. Maybe two. Then a note slides in.

Yes.

"So aren’t you angry at me?"

Another note.

No.

My brows draw together. Curious despite myself.

"Why?"

Another pause. Longer this time. I can almost hear him thinking—the pencil hovering above the paper, the words forming slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid of breaking them.

Then the note comes.

Because I like you. How could I be angry at you?

The spoon freezes mid-air. How could I be angry at you? The words echo in my mind—soft, absurd, like a riddle with no answer.

"If you like someone," I say slowly, testing each word before letting it go, "that doesn’t mean you can’t be angry at them."

A shuffle. Paper against marble.

No matter what happens, I can’t be angry at you. Because I like you. A lot.

I stare at the words. The ink dark against the white paper, the handwriting careful—deliberate, like each letter cost him something.

I set the ice cream box aside. The plastic spoon clinks against the cardboard.

"How is it possible that you like someone?" A pause. My voice drops lower, almost a whisper. "You’ve never met me before."

Another pause.

"Or did we meet before?"

Silence.

No note. No movement. Just the quiet hum of the lights above and the distant sound of wind brushing against the glass wall.

I wait. A minute. Maybe longer. Time feels strange here—stretched thin, folding in on itself.

Maybe he left.

I slowly stand. My legs feel cold—the marble floor has stolen the warmth from my bare feet, seeping into my bones while I wasn’t paying attention. I walk to my bed. Sit down. The mattress soft beneath me.

Then my gaze catches something. Beneath the door. Through the thin gap of light. A shadow.

He’s still there.

Then why didn’t he answer?

I stare at it for a long while. It doesn’t move. Doesn’t shift. Just stays—patient. Waiting. Like it has nowhere else to be.

Why won’t he move?

I stand again. Walk back to the door. Before I can think—before I can talk myself out of it—I open it.

Slowly.

The door swings inward with a soft click, almost silent in the heavy quiet of the room.

I look outside. And my face changes. Just a little. Just enough.

Silas sits on the floor—curled against the cold marble like something trying to make itself small. His knees are drawn up to his stomach, his arms wrapped around them. Holding himself together. His head rests on his knees, turned slightly to the side.

He’s sleeping.

Peacefully.

His brown hair falls across his forehead—messy, soft. He looks younger like this. Softer. More breakable.

The position looks uncomfortable—the kind that will leave his neck stiff, his back aching in the morning. But his face is calm.

Untroubled. Like he’s found a place where nothing can reach him.

His lashes rest against his pale cheeks—dark, still. His lips part slightly, his breathing slow and even.

The notebook lies beside him. Open. The pencil still hangs loosely in his fingers, as if he fell asleep mid-thought.

He fell asleep like this.

On the cold floor. Waiting for me.

I kneel down beside him. The marble is hard beneath my knees, cold seeping through the fabric of my pants. I take the pencil from his fingers—gently, careful not to wake him.

His hand doesn’t move. He doesn’t stir.

My gaze shifts to the notebook. It’s open to a page. Something is written there—the last thing he wrote before sleep took him.

I pick it up.

The paper is still warm. The words slightly smudged, like he pressed too hard.

I want to take you somewhere.

Can you go with me?

I stare at the words. The silence in the room shifts. Thickens. Becomes something else—something waiting.

Did he want to ask me this?