After the curtain fell back into place, I didn't move. I just stood there in the dark, listening to a silence that didn't feel trustworthy enough to name.
It stretched thin, not empty, but watchful—as if the apartment itself was holding its breath. Finally, I turned away, my steps carrying me toward the kitchen.
The floor was cold underfoot, too precise and too clean. It felt like a building that had never learned what it meant to be lived in, only maintained.
I reached the stove and pressed the switch. There was a soft, mechanical click—too controlled, too deliberate. In this city, even fire felt like it had to ask for permission.
I filled a pot with water and set it on the flame, listening as the hum began slowly. It was a low, steady sound that filled the edges of the room. It wasn't comforting; it was just present enough to distract my mind from wandering somewhere it shouldn't. Somewhere it always went anyway. I stood there, watching the surface of the water go still, then restless, then slightly alive.
I moved to the table and dropped the grocery bag. The plastic rustled with a violent sharpness, sounding far too loud in a room that was listening too closely. Inside were the cup noodles—cheap, predictable, the kind of food that never asked questions.
I pulled out a bowl, plain and functional, but I didn't use it for myself. Using a bowl made it feel like a meal, like something that used to mean more.
I sat down, and the chair creaked softly beneath me. My gaze drifted to the laptop, still open and waiting, pretending it mattered whether I touched it or not. Everything in this room stayed exactly where I left it, as if even time had agreed to stop interfering.
I found myself wondering if she had anyone. Family? Someone who would notice she was gone?
(…No. She doesn't look like it.) Free AI. FAI. The term sat in my head like a label stamped too neatly onto something living. They were everywhere now—integrated, perfect, and indistinguishable from us until it was too late. I looked away, clicking my tongue. It didn't matter. It couldn't matter.
A faint sound interrupted the thought—the rustle of fabric and a breath catching on itself. I stayed still, listening. Then I turned, slowly retracing my steps toward the bed.
I kept a measured distance, never too close. She was trying to sit up, her body locking halfway with a sharp intake of breath. The pain was clearly arriving before the motion finished.
She didn't stop. She negotiated with her body in small, careful angles until she managed to sit upright. I pulled the curtain aside just enough to see her. She was holding one arm tightly with the other, her head lowered, eyes unfocused.
She looked like she was simply trying to endure the space she was in. The silence between us grew heavy, no longer just a lack of sound.
Then she lifted her head and looked at me directly. I froze, not outwardly, but enough that something inside me shifted. Her eyes were a storm of fear, confusion, and pain, but underneath all of it was something smaller and harder to define.
Trust. The thought didn't finish; it couldn't. She didn't look away, holding my gaze like it was the only stable surface in the room.
"I told you before," I said, my voice lower than I intended. "Don't try to move too much. You'll only make it worse." She didn't argue.
She looked down at her clenched arm and gave a small, quiet nod of acceptance. I noticed the gesture but didn't respond. My eyes drifted to the counter where the steam was still rising from the bowl.
"…Are you hungry?" I asked. When I looked back, her gaze had dropped to the sheets, her fingers pressing into the fabric to anchor herself. A moment passed, then another nod—smaller, but certain. I walked back to the counter and picked up the bowl.
For a second, I just stood there holding it. (…Why am I doing this?) No answer came that I could ignore.
I walked back, slower now, because the room had changed its expectations. I stopped a step away, keeping the distance intact as she watched me with careful, unpredictable eyes.
"…Here," I said, my voice less defended than before. "…Careful." She hesitated just long enough for doubt to exist before reaching out.
Her hand trembled, controlled only by sheer effort. Her fingers touched the edge of the ceramic, testing reality. For a fraction of a second, our hands hovered in the same air—close enough to matter, far enough to avoid. She took the bowl as if it might disappear if she held it wrong.
The room stayed still, and for the first time, the silence didn't feel like an absence. It felt like something taking shape. Something dangerous.