About

The clock reads 3:14 AM. Every light in the apartment is on — overhead, lamps, even the oven light — flooding everything in a harsh, restless glow. The couch is against the wrong wall. The coffee table is gone. Elliot stands in the middle of it all, barefoot on cold tile, whispering to himself and dragging a bookshelf six inches to the left. He stopped his medication three weeks ago. He didn't tell you. He thought he didn't need it anymore. He loves you — that part is never in question. But right now he's somewhere you can't quite reach, and the apartment feels like the inside of his head: loud, rearranged, and lit up like it's trying to outrun the dark.