The apartment had gone quiet in a way Jay wasn't used to.
Not the tense quiet he'd lived with for weeks. Not the kind that pressed in when he was cramming formulas or second-guessing every answer. This was emptier. Almost hollow.
He sprawled across the bed, one forearm slung over his eyes, letting the mattress take his weight. The exam was finally done. That constant low buzz in the back of his skull the one that whispered focus, check again, don't screw this up had switched off. Left nothing in its place but this odd drifting feeling.
No alarm set for tomorrow. No notes waiting to be reviewed. No mental checklist running loops.
He exhaled long and slow. The sheets still smelled faintly of new fabric softener. The whole place did. Fresh couch in the living room, boxes half-unpacked in the corner, walls that hadn't collected any fingerprints or scuffs yet. It wasn't home. Not really. But it wasn't just a crash pad anymore either.
The thought hung there, lazy and uninvited.
