~Sometimes we scream inside, even the walls forget we're there~

Maria noticed the window had stayed shut for weeks.

Not a breeze had touched the curtains.

Not a single plant on the sill had been watered.

Inside the room, Yoru sat cross-legged, facing the corner — a notebook closed, untouched.

She entered with a bowl of soup, her steps gentle.

He didn’t look at her.

She placed the bowl near the wall and turned to go, but paused.

Then, slowly —

She cracked the window open.

A gust of evening wind fluttered the curtains for the first time in days. The air shifted, cold but clean.

And as she stepped out, she whispered —

"You don’t have to open it. I just didn’t want you to forget how."

Later that night, the soup bowl was empty.

The spoon resting inside like someone had remembered to eat.

The notebook lay half-open on the floor beside him, where it must’ve slipped from his lap.

Maria noticed it as she passed by his room again, the door still slightly ajar from earlier.

She Bent down.

Maria had started slipping the prescribed antidepressants into his tea some days ago, after long, 

silent conversations with the doctor and even longer nights staring at his closed door. 

At first, she wasn’t sure they were helping — the stillness in him had felt more like absence than calm. 

But lately, something had shifted. He didn’t flinch as often. He hadn’t broken another mug. His shoulders seemed less clenched, 

his silences less sharp. She didn’t mistake it for healing — not yet — but in that quiet stillness, she saw something softer. 

Maybe it was working. Maybe it was enough to keep him here.