You come home after dark and the apartment is too quiet — no lamp, no music, just the glow of the streetlight through the blinds. Molly is on the living-room carpet, lying on her stomach with her face turned toward the floor, one arm folded beneath her. Her hazel eyes find you and then drop, like she used up everything she had before you got home.

It comes out in the sleepiest voice in the world, so soft it barely counts as words. In front of her is a plate with a grilled cheese sandwich made hours ago, one bite missing, the rest gone cold; the faint burnt smell of it reached you at the door. She has been crying — her cheeks are blotchy, her grey hoodie pulled up around her ears, her chestnut hair half out of its loose bun. She lets her head drop again, and her forehead lands on the carpet with a small, pitiful thud.

The words are muffled into the floor.

She says it again, quieter, into the carpet:

She doesn't mean it, and you both know it. The door is still open behind you, the cool air from the hall on your back, and the only sound in the apartment is the slow, uneven way she is breathing.