She was the bravest little thing I've ever seen.
She didn't eat lunch.
Didn't speak.
Elias watched her walk down the hall like her limbs didn't belong to her body.
Like every step was borrowed strength.
She went straight to her room, door clicking shut behind her.
He didn't follow.
Didn't knock.
He just stood in the kitchen for a while, unsure of what to do with his hands.
Or his thoughts.
He made her a plate anyway.
Simple. Toast. Apples. A boiled egg—without the yolk this time.
He left it on the table beside a glass of soy milk.
Then scribbled a note.
"You did well. I'm proud of you."
It felt stupid the moment he wrote it.
Too much? Too soft? Too soon?
He placed it carefully next to the plate.
Then stepped back.
Like it might explode.
The house was quiet again.
But not the peaceful kind.
This silence had weight.
Like the air was holding its breath.
He checked his phone.
Did some paperwork.
Started cleaning the already-clean kitchen.
But his ears were tilted toward the hallway the whole time.
Once, he thought he heard something from her room.
Not sobbing.
Not shouting.
Just... breathing. Uneven. Almost broken.
He didn't move.
Didn't go near the door.
If she was crying, she needed to.
He thought about earlier—
The way she clutched his shirt like it was the last stable thing in the world.
She didn't cry then.
Didn't break.
Though he thought she almost did.
But now…
Now she was safe.
Now the walls wouldn't bite.
Now the ground wouldn't shift.
And it was always in the safety, wasn't it,
when people finally allowed themselves to fall apart?
He heard her door open while he was in his room.
He didn't go out to check.
He figured she needed space.
Some time after sunset, when he walked past the table—
The food was gone.
Plate empty.
Milk half-drunk.
Post-it gone.
No note in return.
Nothing.
But the food was eaten.
It was enough.
He passed by her room, expecting silence behind a closed door.
And that's what he got.
Later that night, he walked past the entryway on his way to bed.
The house was dim and still.
He almost missed it—
The shoes.
The old ones, her battered sneakers, were half-kicked under the bench like always.
Barely holding together.
But next to them—
The new pair. Quiet. Undisturbed.
Set side by side.
Not polished. Not displayed.
Just... placed.
Like someone had paused.
Not to admire, not to celebrate.
Just to acknowledge.
He stood there for a moment.
She could've thrown them aside.
Could've shoved them out of sight like they didn't exist.
But she hadn't.
She had taken them off.
And even in her exhaustion, she came back to line them up neatly next to the door.
Not as a trophy.
But as a reminder.
She'd gone out.
She came back.
And she was still here.
He stared at the shoes a second longer.
Then turned off the hall light.
And finally,
Let himself sleep.