Chapter 2

In the other room, Soul sat slouched on the edge of his bed, fingers idly tracing the sleeve of one of his records. The smooth, haunting melody of a jazz tune filled the space, the low hum of the bassline thrumming in his chest.

The music was supposed to calm him, give him something to latch onto when his thoughts got too loud. But it wasn't working. The melody simply hung in the air, as his attention slipped somewhere else entirely.

She hadn't told him what was wrong. Not yet.

But he'd noticed the signs—the sharp edges of her focus dulled into something unfamiliar, her movements deliberate but distant, like she was walking through a fog only she could see. She still worked hard, still pushed forward like she always did, but there was something else beneath it now. Something heavier.

Soul ran a hand down his face, dragging the heel of his palm over his jaw as if the motion could clear the thoughts piling up in his head. But they didn't stop. They circled back to her, again and again, until his chest tightened with a frustration he didn't know how to name.

The track shifted, a saxophone weaving a melancholy solo into the mix. Normally, the sound would ground him, give him a place to settle. But tonight, it only seemed to amplify the ache behind his ribs. His gaze flicked toward her closed bedroom door, visible through the cracked doorframe. The light spilling from beneath it cast faint shadows across the hallway floor, unmoving. She hadn't been moving much at all lately.

Maka was the one person he trusted completely, the one person who had seen him at his worst and stayed. But now? She felt farther away with every passing day. He wondered, bitterly, if it was his fault.

The thought sank into him, familiar and unwelcome. It wasn't new. But coming from Maka—feeling it from her, of all people—it made his stomach churn. He reached for the record player, lifting the needle with care. The silence that followed was immediate, heavy, and unnatural. He hated silence. It gave his thoughts too much room to breathe.

A faint creak snapped him out of his spiral. His head shot up as Maka's door opened, her silhouette framed by the dim hallway light. She lingered for a moment before stepping into view, her button-up and sweats rumpled from hours spent sitting still. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her shoulders stiff.

"Do you have to be so loud?" she asked, her tone sharp enough to cut through the quiet.

Soul blinked, caught off guard. It wasn't like he'd been blasting the music—if anything, he'd been barely listening to it. He glanced at his hands, realizing too late that he'd been tapping his fingers against his knee, the soft rhythm carrying faintly across the room. "Sorry," he muttered, standing and shoving his hands into his pockets. "Didn't think you were sleeping."

"I wasn't." Her voice was curt, her gaze lingering on him for a moment too long before she turned and walked into the kitchen.

Soul hesitated, watching her shadow disappear around the corner. He thought about leaving it alone—letting her be, like she clearly wanted. But something in her posture had stopped him, a tension that didn't feel like anger but something worse. He followed her.

She was leaning against the counter when he entered, her hands wrapped around a glass of water. The light above the sink cast a faint glow over her features, highlighting the tightness in her jaw, the faint crease between her brows. The tension in the room was thick, pressing down on him like a weight he didn't know how to shake.

"You've been... off lately," he said finally, keeping his voice careful, casual. "Everything okay?"

Her fingers tightened around the glass, her knuckles paling slightly. For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. But then she turned to face him, her expression unreadable. "I'm fine."

He frowned. "Yeah, sure you are," he said, crossing his arms. "You've been tearing paper into confetti all week and staring off into space like you're somewhere else. That's not 'fine,' Maka."

Her jaw tightened, and he saw it then—that flicker of something sharp in her eyes, like the words had hit a nerve she didn't want him to see. "I said I'm fine," she snapped, her voice louder than she intended, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet apartment.

Soul held up his hands, stepping back slightly but keeping his gaze on hers. "Okay. Fine. Whatever you say."

She didn't say anything else. Neither did he. The silence stretched between them, heavy and brittle, until she turned her back to him, the tension in her shoulders refusing to ease. For a moment, he thought about trying again—about finding the right words to make her talk.

But he didn't. He just stayed there, leaning against the doorframe, watching as she retreated further into herself