Thin walls

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was thick, alive with everything unspoken.

Elias didn’t try to touch her. Not after everything he’d just confessed. He sat beside her on the bed, legs apart, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed like he was bracing for a verdict.

Maya had no verdict to give.

She stared at her hands, resting in her lap. She could still feel the edges of the photo, the worn paper of the letter, the sharp coldness of the past she’d pried open like a forbidden tomb. Her chest felt too small for her breath. But she didn’t move. Didn’t run.

“I’ll stay,” she’d said, her voice rasping in the quiet, and he’d looked at her like she’d split him open again—only softer this time.

Now, it was past midnight. The apartment was dim, lit only by a small reading lamp Elias had moved to the living room. They hadn’t said much after that. He offered her tea. She declined. Neither of them touched the food he brought out. The air between them was fragile, like old glass.

He gave h