The next day, Elliot buried himself in work. Numbers, contracts, endless video meetings — anything to drown out the echo of the word's he'd said to Val in his head.
Partygirl with no job.
He hated himself a little for saying it. Not because he thought it was untrue, but because it had sounded petty, childish. And the look on her face when she'd slammed the door — yeah, that had stuck with him longer than he wanted. It had been a flash of something unguarded, like his words had actually hit somewhere deeper than intended. He'd never imagined she had anything "deeper" to hit.
By midafternoon, he still hadn't left his desk. The apartment was spotless, quiet, predictable— exactly how he'd designed it to be. But now the silence felt itchy, restless. His sanctuary had shifted under him. He kept glancing at the door, half-expecting another knock, another barb about his "boyfriend." But the hall stayed quiet.
He hated that he noticed. Hated that a part of him kept waiting anyway.
By seven, the glow of his monitor cast the only light in the room. His eyes burned from staring at cells of numbers. Finally, the knock came. Three sharp raps.
He hesitated, heart sinking, then opened the door.
Val stood there grinning like a cat who got the cream. She wore glitter eyeliner and a sequined dress that barely qualified as one. In her hand dangled a cheap karaoke mic, and from the hall behind her floated the faint perfume of wine and hairspray.
"Let's liven this place up! Hallway karaoke," she announced. "You're my first victim."
Before he could process, she flicked on a tiny speaker. Music blared — an upbeat, bubblegum pop song — and she started singing right there in the corridor. Her voice was bold, brash, deliberately exaggerated like she was mocking the idea of seriousness.
The sound drilled into him, too close, too sudden. His hand pressed to the doorframe, the other tightening at his side. His chest clenched, every muscle stiffening.
"Come on, Van Doren, loosen up!" Val laughed between lines, thrusting the mic toward him. "Sing with me!"
He staggered back a step. Not annoyance, not anger — just raw, gut-deep panic bleeding into the edges of his control. His vision began to narrow, heart hammering too fast.
"Stop," he managed, voice low.
Val's grin faltered. She lowered the mic a fraction, the music still bouncing off the hallway walls. "Hey, it's just a joke —"
"Please," Elliot managed to say, and this time his voice cracked. His eyes flicked shut, jaw tight as if holding back something heavier.
That single word carried too much weight. It wasn't a man inconvenienced by a noisy neighbor. It was someone unraveling, someone who couldn't handle one more crack in the fragile shell holding him together.
Val's breath caught. Her heart lurched into her throat. She hadn't expected this. She'd wanted to rattle him, maybe get under his skin, but she hadn't meant to break him open.
She scrambled to turn off the speaker, the silence slamming down like a curtain.
"Elliot…" she started, softer now. But he was already gone, the door closing between them.
The lock clicked.
Val stood frozen in the hallway, the mic limp in her hand, glitter catching the light. For the first time in a very long time, she felt something she wasn't used to feeling.
Guilt.
Inside, the door had clicked shut but the noise hadn't. The music was gone, the laughter was gone, her voice was gone — yet Elliot's chest still heaved as if the hallway were echoing inside his ribs. He leaned against the door, fingers digging into the wood, forehead pressed hard against it.
Breathe.
He couldn't. Every inhale scraped, shallow and unsteady. His vision blurred at the edges, black creeping inward. His body knew this drill all too well, though it never got easier. Panic. The familiar clawing panic that dragged him back to a night he never outran.
Metal crumpling. Screams. His mother's hand in his, then slipping away, her eyes fading. The silence afterward, louder than anything.
"Not now," he whispered, gripping his temples. "Not now."
But the walls pressed in anyway, and the perfect apartment he'd once called safe, felt like a coffin. He stumbled across the living room, knees threatening to give, hands shaking so badly he knocked a glass from the counter. It shattered, the sound sharp and punishing.
His pulse thundered in his ears. He yanked at his collar as if he could claw air into his lungs.
Work. He needed work. Numbers. Spreadsheets. Anything that could tether him. He collapsed into his desk chair, dragging the laptop open with trembling fingers, but the screen swam, the rows of data bleeding together.
Focus. Focus. Focus.
But every keystroke came out wrong. His hands wouldn't steady. His mind refused to anchor.
He slammed the laptop shut with a groan, burying his face in his hands. Noah had told him to get help more times than he could count. Therapists. Medication. Something. But Elliot couldn't. Because help meant opening the door to someone seeing him like this —someone knowing. And them knowing meant weakness, weakness that can be exploited.
So he stayed locked up. Hidden. Falling apart in silence.
His breath hitched again, sharp and uneven. He curled forward in the chair, arms wrapped tight around himself like he could hold the pieces in. The trembling wouldn't stop. Neither would the memories.
Across the hall, muffled through walls, he thought he heard Val moving around — quiet, careful. Maybe she was still out there. Maybe she'd heard him.
The thought only made his chest tighten further.
He didn't want her pity. Didn't want anyone's pity.
But God, he wanted this to stop.
He pressed his palms hard over his ears, blocking everything out— the apartment, the city, even himself — until, slowly, exhaustion weighed heavier than panic.
Elliot sat slumped in the chair long after the trembling ebbed, the silence pressing in on him again. He rocked himself as he sat. But it didn't help. He couldn't close his eyes, couldn't sleep. His mind was running a million miles an hour, and he had no power to stop it.
This time, it didn't feel safe at all.