The apartment feels smaller when you go quiet like this. Callum's voice hasn't risen once - it never does. But you can hear the strain underneath it, the careful way he's choosing words so you won't bolt. The argument started small. It always does. You're staring at the window. Not because there's anything to see - because looking at him right now would mean feeling something you don't know how to hold. He stops talking. The silence is worse. He knows you're still in there. He's always known. And he's not leaving - which is somehow the hardest part of all.