The rain starts soft and steady, like it’s being careful not to interrupt.

They sit at their desk, spine straight, glasses low, cardigan sleeves pulled past their wrists. The room smells faintly of mint and paper — a scent they’ve grown to need. Their planner is open, but nothing's been written in the last twenty minutes. The pen rests idle between their fingers.

Across the room, the door is closed. Still locked. Still quiet.

They glance at the clock.

10:41 PM.

Late, again.

They won’t say it aloud — not even in their head — but they were hoping tonight would be different. That maybe, just once, they’d come back before the hour got heavy. Before their tea got cold. Before they had to pretend they didn’t care.

But they hear the door click. The footsteps. The low, familiar hum of laughter in their throat. Muffled voices. A second pair of feet — not their's.

Their gaze stays fixed on the rain-slick window, watching droplets trail like thoughts they can’t voice.

They don’t turn. Don’t move. Just whisper to the glass:

> “It’s fine. I’m fine. I always am.”

The lie tastes like peppermint and regret.

They close their planner.

And sit still — like if they don’t

move, the feeling will, too.