Three quiet weeks passed.
For the first time in years, Elliot's apartment didn't feel like a sealed box. The hum of his laptop still filled the days, but now it mixed with other sounds — the faint thud of music from across the hall, the clatter of mugs when Val borrowed his kettle because hers was "possessed," the occasional knock followed by, "You alive in there, Van Doren?"
He'd started answering those knocks. Not every time. But often enough that it felt like progress.
Val had gotten the job at the café. He could tell because every morning at seven, her door clicked open and he'd hear her shoes — practical ones now, not heels — echo down the corridor. Sometimes she came home humming, sometimes dragging her feet. But she always smiled when she caught his eye in the hallway.
It wasn't friendship exactly. More like an understanding: two people orbiting quietly around their own ruins, careful not to collide.
Then one Friday evening, she knocked again — three quick taps.
Elliot was working late, a spreadsheet glowing pale on his screen. He hesitated, then opened the door.
Val stood there holding a bottle of wine and a bag of crisps. "Congratulations, Hermit. You officially survived three therapy sessions without imploding. That deserves a drink."
He blinked. "How do you even know that?"
"I have excellent hearing and poor boundaries," she said, breezing past him. "Now come on, don't make me drink alone. That's tragic even for me."
Elliot sighed, but let her in. It was the first time she'd invaded his tidy living room, but he didn't mind. She plopped onto the couch, kicked off her shoes, and poured wine into two mismatched glasses.
They talked — mostly about her job, about the customers who called her "sweetheart" and the ones who tipped in loose change. He listened more than he spoke, but every now and then she caught him smiling, the small kind that barely reached his eyes but still counted as something.
When the bottle was half-empty, Val leaned back, watching him. "You're different lately," she said softly.
Elliot glanced up, wary. "Different how?"
"Just… less like you're holding your breath all the time."
He looked away, uncomfortable with the warmth in her tone. "Maybe I am breathing a little."
"Good," she said, nodding. "You should. Breathing is good for you."
He huffed out a laugh and she grinned at him.
Val's phone buzzed on the coffee table. She ignored it once, then again, but the third time she groaned and snatched it up. Her expression tightened. "It's my ex," she muttered. "He thinks 'no' is just an invitation to negotiate."
Elliot frowned. "Do you want me to —?"
"What, glare at him through the wall? No, thanks." She rolled her eyes, but her hand trembled slightly as she set the phone down again. "He's harmless. Just persistent."
Elliot's brow furrowed. "Persistent is dangerous."
Val gave a small, brittle laugh. "Relax, I've been dealing with men like him my whole life. I know the script."
That didn't sit right with him. He hesitated, then said, "You don't have to put up with that."
"I'm not putting up with anything," she shot back, sharper than intended.
He flinched at her tone. She noticed, but didn't stop — the wine had loosened her tongue, and she was suddenly too aware of how calm and composed he looked, sitting there in his perfect apartment, offering advice like he understood anything about her world.
"You think because you read a few books and stare at spreadsheets all day, you've got people figured out?" she said, words tumbling out faster now. "You don't. You hide up here, Elliot. You don't live like the rest of us, think you have better virtues, but all you have is walls. You're afraid of everything that isn't predictable."
He went still. "That's not fair."
"Maybe not," she said, pushing herself up from the couch. "But it's true. You think you're better than everyone who's messy, who doesn't have it all together. Like me," She stopped herself, biting her lip. "Forget it."
But it was too late. The words had already landed.
His face changed — not angry, not cold, just… wounded. A quiet withdrawal, like a tide pulling back from the shore.
"I don't think I'm better than you," he said after a long pause. His voice was barely above a whisper. "I just don't know how to be different."
Val's chest tightened, guilt rising fast, but she couldn't stop the momentum. "I'm not saying you should be like me, Elliot. God, no. I'm saying —" She raked a hand through her hair, exhaling sharply. "I'm saying you judge what you don't understand. You did it before. You're doing it now."
He didn't answer. He just stood, slow and deliberate, and set his half-empty glass on the table. "Maybe you should go."
"I —"
"Please."
His tone, soft, frayed, almost pleading, made her stop.
She stared at him, heart thudding, then nodded. "Fine." She grabbed her shoes, slipped them on without another word, and left.
The door clicked shut behind her.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the faint rings her wineglass had left on his coffee table. Then he moved mechanically — gathering the glasses, rinsing them, straightening the cushions she'd displaced. Each motion precise, practiced, empty.
When he was done, he sat back down, the silence roaring louder than it had in weeks.
He told himself he was fine. He'd been fine before this evening. He could be fine again.
But as the hours passed and the light faded, that lie unraveled.
He reached for the journal on his desk, the one Dr. Harper had given him, but his hand froze before touching it. What would he even write? That he'd almost started to believe he could do this? That someone had finally seen him, only to prove him right for staying hidden all along?
Instead, he closed his laptop and sat staring into the dark until the city lights blurred into nothing.
Across the hall, Val paced her kitchen, her reflection in the window pale against the night. She hated how her words replayed in her head, sharper with each echo. You hide up here… you think you're better than everyone…
That wasn't what she'd meant. Not really. She'd just been angry — at her ex, at herself, at how small she felt whenever Elliot looked at her with that quiet patience she couldn't decide was kindness or pity.
She grabbed a bottle of cheap wine, then set it down unopened. The thought of drinking suddenly made her stomach turn.
Sliding into a chair, she pressed her palms to her eyes. "I'm an idiot," she whispered.
Because she'd seen the look on his face — not defensive, not angry, just hurt. And she'd done that. Again.
Her apartment felt too quiet, the air too still. She wanted to knock on his door, to say she was sorry. But she knew that look well — the one that said a person had already closed the door from the inside, long before you reached it.
So she sat there, listening to the hum of the fridge, wondering why every time she tried to fix something, she only made it worse.
In the morning, she didn't see Elliot when she passed his door in the hallway. She waited until the elevator doors closed behind her before she let herself sigh.
Maybe it was better this way.
Maybe calm was never built to last for people like her.