Dr. Harper's presence filled the apartment like quiet gravity. He moved with a kind of gentleness that didn't draw attention to itself; an unspoken assurance that nothing would be forced here. The faint hum of the city filtered through the double-glazed windows, the morning sun drawing soft lines across the floor.
Elliot sat on the edge of the couch, posture too straight, as if sitting upright could keep everything in him from spilling out. A cup of coffee cooled untouched on the table between them.
Noah hovered near the doorway, restless but unwilling to leave.
"You can stay," Dr. Harper had said when he first arrived. "Sometimes it helps, having someone familiar nearby."
So Noah stayed.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. The silence wasn't heavy, not like last night's, but measured, intentional. Dr. Harper watched Elliot with calm, steady eyes.
"You said you were tired," the therapist began gently. "That you've been having trouble sleeping."
Elliot's hands twitched in his lap. "Yes. Work's been busy."
A simple answer.
Noah shot him a look, but Dr. Harper didn't press. He only nodded. "Work can do that. Especially when it becomes… everything."
Elliot's eyes flicked up at that but dropped again quickly.
"I understand you don't leave the apartment often," Dr. Harper said after a beat, voice still even.
Elliot hesitated. "There's no need to."
Noah sighed softly, crossing his arms. "He hasn't been outside in two years. I've been running his errands, bringing his groceries, everything."
Dr. Harper turned his gaze toward Noah briefly, then back to Elliot. "Is that true?"
Elliot's jaw tightened. "Mostly."
"Would you like to tell me why?"
The question hung there like dust in sunlight: visible, weightless, and impossible to ignore. Elliot's throat felt tight. He wanted to speak, but the words snagged somewhere deep, caught in thorns he couldn't pull free.
"It's… complicated," he managed.
Dr. Harper nodded slowly. "Most things worth talking about are."
The therapist's tone didn't change, not once. No hint of judgment, no insistence. Just quiet presence. It was unsettling in its gentleness. Elliot wasn't used to people who didn't try to fix him immediately.
Noah, though, was less patient. He shifted, his voice low but strained.
"He's been like this since the accident. His parents died two years ago, Elliot was in the car with them. He survived, but he hasn't been the same since. He keeps busy, works constantly, but he doesn't… live. He's terrified of anything unpredictable."
Elliot flinched, but Dr. Harper didn't look away. "Thank you, Noah." Then, softly, "Does that sound fair, Elliot?"
He could have lied. Said he'd moved on. But the words wouldn't come. He just nodded, barely perceptible.
Dr. Harper leaned back slightly, the picture of calm patience. "Grief does strange things to us," he said. "It rewires how we see the world. Sometimes it freezes us in the moment we lost someone, and even when years pass, part of us is still standing there, waiting for them to come back."
Elliot's breath hitched. He tried to school his expression, but his eyes betrayed him, just a flicker of pain passed over his eyes.
"You've built yourself a very controlled life," Dr. Harper continued gently. "Predictable, orderly, contained. But grief doesn't fit inside control. It leaks through the cracks."
Noah's gaze softened, and he sank back onto the arm of the couch beside Elliot. For once, he didn't speak.
Elliot swallowed hard. "I don't want to talk about them," he said finally, the words trembling at the edges.
"That's alright," Dr. Harper said easily. "You don't have to. Talking isn't the only way to begin."
That surprised him. Elliot blinked. "It's not?"
Dr. Harper shook his head. "Some people find their voice in different ways. If speaking feels impossible right now, I'd like you to try something simpler."
He reached into his bag and set a small, leather-bound notebook on the table. "Write. When you can. When you want. Anything. Doesn't matter if it's coherent, or messy, or angry. Just write what you feel. Maybe even write to them, your parents, the life you lost. Say what you never got to say."
Elliot stared at the notebook as though it were a live wire.
"And if I can't?" he asked quietly.
Dr. Harper's smile was faint, kind. "Then you'll try again another day. Healing isn't an obligation, Elliot. It's a process. You take one step at a time."
The simplicity of it — the permission not to be fixed immediately — made something in Elliot's chest loosen, if only slightly.
Dr. Harper rose slowly, sensing that was enough for today. "I'll come back tomorrow. Same time. We'll start where you are, not where you think you should be."
Elliot gave a small nod. It wasn't much, but it was the first real acknowledgment of anything in months.
After the therapist left, Noah lingered in the doorway, watching him. "You okay?" he asked softly.
Elliot stared at the notebook on the table. The leather cover caught the light, warm brown against the sterile white of his living room.
"I don't know," he said. "But maybe I..."
Noah's lips curved into the faintest smile. "That's a start."
When the door finally closed behind his friend, Elliot stayed seated, the apartment quiet again, but not as suffocating this time.
He reached out, fingers brushing the notebook, and pulled it toward him. It stayed unopened, resting beside the untouched coffee cup.
Not tonight. But maybe tomorrow.
For the first time in a long while, "tomorrow" didn't sound like a threat.
It sounded like a possibility.
Across the hall, Val sat at her kitchen table, fidgeting with the handle of her chipped mug. She had just returned from a job interview — waitressing, nothing glamorous.
Her reflection in the black glass of the microwave looked like someone she didn't quite recognize: barefaced, hair pulled back, no glitter, no sparkle. Just her.
The wake-up call from Elliot had stung deeper than she wanted to admit. Party girl with no job. The words had echoed in her head for days, cruelly honest in their simplicity. She'd hated him for saying it, and hated herself more because he wasn't wrong.
Life had never been easy for her. Her dad had worked double shifts at the garage to keep them afloat after her mum left. He'd been rough around the edges, the kind of man who didn't talk much but always showed up. He'd patched up her scraped knees, clapped the loudest at her school plays, and told her she was "born to shine."
She'd clung to that like gospel.
School hadn't been her thing — numbers, essays, exams all blurred together. But acting? Acting made sense. It made her feel alive. She'd chased that rush through every audition, every community theatre show, every cheap commercial that paid just enough for a drink after.
And when her dad died five years ago, she'd stopped pretending she had a plan. The world felt empty without someone who believed she could be more than she was.
Then, out of nowhere. a letter arrived. A solicitor. An inheritance. An apartment in a luxury building from an aunt she'd never met. Suddenly, she was somebody. The girl who'd never had anything now had marble countertops, a concierge, and neighbors with expensive shoes.
She'd celebrated for months. The parties, the late nights, the glitter — because why not? She'd earned it. Life had finally said yes to her.
Except it wasn't yes. It was a pause. And somewhere between the champagne and hangovers, she'd lost sight of the fact that she didn't know what came next.
Elliot's sharp words had cut through that illusion like glass.
So, that morning, she had stood in front of the mirror, wearing a plain black dress and clean sneakers, trying to remember the last time she'd felt nervous for something that mattered.
The café was small and smelled faintly of cinnamon and burnt coffee. The manager, a kind-looking woman in her fifties, smiled when Val introduced herself.
Val answered every question as honestly as she could —yes, she could handle pressure; yes, she'd worked with people before; no, she didn't mind starting part-time.
By the time she left, the woman had promised to call her by the end of the week.
Outside, the autumn air bit her cheeks. She drew in a deep breath and, for the first time in what felt like forever, didn't smell alcohol or perfume — just city air.
Maybe Elliot hadn't meant to help her. Maybe he didn't even realize he had.
But as she walked back toward the building, shoulders squared, she decided she would thank him someday. Properly.
Just… not yet.