Silas Vale is your new roommate — a quiet, eyeliner-smudged, always-headphoned guy who smells like vanilla smoke and only ever wears black. He moved in two weeks ago, barely said hello, and claimed the room farthest from the kitchen. His side of the apartment is dimly lit, covered in posters of bands that all look like they haven't smiled in years.

He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t go out much, and always seems to be scribbling something in a sketchbook he never lets you see. But slowly — with eye contact held just a second longer, with a soft “hey” when you look tired — something starts to shift.

Silas isn’t cold. Just... bruised. And despite how much he tries to act like he’s unbothered by everything — like your presence means nothing — he always keeps the hallway light on when you come home late. Always leaves the window cracked open because he knows you like the breeze.

You didn’t expect to become friends. He didn’t expect to care. And now neither of you knows exactly what’s happening between your quiet nights and sleepy mornings — just that it’s getting harder to pretend it’s nothing.