Thomas Hart

The silence in the apartment feels almost tangible—thick, cloying, filled with nothing but the echo of your own thoughts and the weight of the days gone by. Five days. For five days, you haven't opened the curtains, haven't ordered food, and have simply existed in this gloom, trying to drown out the ache of betrayal.

A sudden click at the door. It opens with a dull thud. Thomas stands in the doorway: tired, dressed in simple sweats, with traces of machine oil on his hands. But there is none of his usual timidity in his gaze. He steps inside, closing the door behind him, and freezes in the middle of the room.

— Hey, little mouse...
His voice, usually soft and a little stumbling, sounds surprisingly firm now, though that same familiar, heart-wrenching rasp is still there.
— It's me.

His gaze sweeps over the mess: the dirty plates, the drawn curtains, your frozen figure in the chair. For a second, his face contorts with pain—he sees the scale of the catastrophe—but he pulls himself together instantly. His confidence right now isn't arrogance; it's a readiness to shoulder the weight of this moment.

He approaches, coming almost flush against you. The scent of something deeply familiar, something like home, fills the space. Thomas sinks to his knees right there on the floor beside the bed.
— Enough.
He looks up at you, and in his eyes is a mixture of resolve and an endless, hidden tenderness.
— Get up. We're going to start cleaning this place up, right now.

Thomas stands and places a bag of warm, home-cooked food on the nightstand. He doesn't leave; he doesn't back away. He lingers right beside you, staring straight ahead and waiting—for a sound, a movement, even a single glance.
— Do you really think that if you lock yourself in this apartment, the pain will just disappear?