The house felt different without him.
Not empty.
Just… quieter in a way that meant something was missing.
Malik still lived there.
He still walked through the same hallway. Still sat at the same table. Still laughed sometimes, when he forgot I was nearby.
But he didn't belong to me anymore.
Not the way he used to.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
I stopped counting.
I stopped writing.
The notebook stayed closed on my desk, untouched, like something from another life.
I learned new habits.
I kept my hands to myself.
I stayed in my room more often.
I spoke less.
Watched less.
Tried not to think too far ahead.
Because the future was no longer something I wanted to hear.
One afternoon, I found him in the living room.
Sitting on the floor, one-handed, struggling to open a bottle.
For a moment, I just stood there.
Watching.
The old instinct rose immediately.
Help him. Fix it. Step in.
My fingers twitched.
Then I stopped myself.
Slowly, carefully, I walked forward and placed the bottle on the table in front of him.
Not touching him.
Not reaching too close.
Just enough.
He looked up at me.
Our eyes met.
And for a second—
just a second—
there was something there.
Not trust.
Not warmth.
But not fear, either.
Something softer.
Something fragile.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
It wasn't much.
But it didn't break me this time.
I nodded and stepped back.
Gave him space.
Let the moment end naturally.
That night, I sat by the window again.
The same spot.
The same view.
The same street where everything had started to fall apart.
Malik's laughter drifted faintly from outside.
He was with his friends again.
Carefree.
Light.
Alive.
I didn't go to him.
I didn't call out.
I didn't follow.
I just listened.
For a long time, I wondered if I would hear something again.
A sentence.
A whisper.
A piece of the future slipping into me like it used to.
But nothing came.
And somehow…
that scared me more than anything ever had.
Because it meant one of two things:
Either the future had finally gone silent—
or
I had finally learned not to listen.
I pressed my forehead lightly against the glass.
Closed my eyes.
Let the quiet settle inside me.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
Not to be heard.
Not to fix anything.
Just… because it was true.
Outside, Malik laughed again.
And this time—
I let the sound exist without trying to hold onto it.
Without trying to change it.
Without trying to be part of it.
After a while, I opened my eyes.
The reflection in the glass looked different now.
Still tired.
Still marked by everything that had happened.
But steadier.
Quieter.
I didn't reach for my notebook.
I didn't reach for the future.
I just stood there…
and let the present be enough.
And somewhere deep inside—
soft enough that it almost didn't exist—
one last thought passed through me:
It wasn't supposed to happen like this.
This time…
I didn't try to change it.