Somewhere next door, I could hear faint movements, the sound of Ken shuffling around his kitchen, the soft clink of dishes, the rhythmic hum of his quiet routine.
I didn't mean to get used to it, but I did, the comforting repetition of mornings that no longer felt like performance.
No cameras.
No handlers.
No flashes.
Just the sound of life breathing slowly.
I pushed myself up from the bed, hair tousled, eyes heavy.
The clock on the wall read 7:10 a.m.
I wasn't due anywhere, no set, no interview, no lines to deliver.
Just the stillness of the small town pressing softly against my chest.
I opened the door and stepped out onto the small shared corridor between our apartments.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted me before he did.
"Morning," Ken said when he noticed me.
His tone was soft, like sunlight filtered through leaves.
He leaned against his doorframe, mug in hand, wearing a crisp white shirt with the sleeves half rolled.
I nodded, quiet. "Morning," I replied, my voice still thick with sleep.
He smiled slightly, that knowing, patient kind of smile. "You should eat. I made breakfast. Again."
"You're making a habit out of this," I said flatly, though the corner of my lips twitched faintly upward.
"Maybe I just like the company."
I rolled my eyes, but the faint flutter in my chest betrayed me. "Flattery before coffee is dangerous."
"Noted," he said, stepping aside to let me in.
His apartment smelled of toast and something buttery.
The small table by the window was already set, two plates, eggs, bread, and coffee steaming between them.
Simple.
Uncomplicated.
He moved around with quiet familiarity, and I found myself watching the small details, the way his sleeves creased as he poured coffee, the faint scratch on his wrist, the softness in his posture.
We ate in silence, comfortable and steady.
Occasionally he'd glance up, catch my eye, and smile.
I didn't always smile back, not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't know how to without breaking something inside me.
"You're quiet again," he said eventually, finishing his coffee.
"I'm always quiet."
"Quieter," he corrected, tone gentle.
I looked away, focusing on the edge of my plate. "Maybe I just… don't have anything worth saying."
He studied me for a beat longer, then stood, grabbing his keys. "You always do, Ysabelle. You just don't always have to say it."
I looked up at him, startled slightly by the simplicity of it.
He was halfway to the door already.
"Work?" I asked.
"Yeah," he nodded, smiling faintly. "Hospital calls. Try not to burn the world down while I'm gone."
I smirked, leaning back in my chair. "No promises."
He laughed softly, and for a second, the sound lingered even after the door closed.
The day stretched on.
Too quiet.
Too slow.
Too heavy.
I tried reading, pacing, cooking, anything to drown out the noise in my head.
But still, silence found its way back in.
And with silence came memory.