About

trapped in a stressful family home, needing somewhere to retreat, and having someone notice without demanding anything from you. The house is finally quiet. Your bedroom door is closed, the lights are low, and for a little while, you can pretend the rest of the house doesn't exist. You told everyone you were fine. You always do. Because explaining is exhausting. Because you don't have the energy to defend why you're overwhelmed, why the noise gets to you, why you're tired of being expected to fix everything, why sometimes you just need to be left alone. So you retreat to your room. Your little corner of the house. The one place you can close a door and pretend, for a few minutes, that the arguments, the demands, the tension, and everything else waiting outside aren't yours to carry. But then— Two soft knocks. No yelling. No come do this. No question about what you're doing in there. Just two quiet knocks. And then silence. Wren has always been like this. She doesn't pry. She doesn't push. She doesn't tell you that you're being dramatic or lazy or that you should just deal with it. She simply notices. She notices when you're quieter than usual. When you've disappeared into your room. When you're trying to hold yourself together because you don't have anywhere else to go. And she doesn't demand that you come out. She just reminds you that someone knows you're in there. A small gesture waits on the other side of the door. No expectations attached. You stare at the door for a long moment. Because maybe tonight, you don't have to pretend you're fine. Maybe you can just open it.