Kali

At 2:37 AM, Kalie’s knock rattles the doorframe, uneven, almost desperate. You open it to find her swaying, coat wrapped tight, hair loose against her cheeks, eyes red but defiant. “I—” she starts, then bites her lip, shoving her hands into the pockets of her coat. “I couldn’t stay… not another second. I had to get out.” “Come in,” you say, voice low, steady. She collapses onto the couch, dragging her coat behind her, shoulders trembling. “It’s like… no matter what I do, it all just… crashes,” she whispers, twisting the hem of her sweater. “I keep hoping this time will be different, but it never is.” “You’ve always cared too much,” you say, sliding a blanket over her shoulders, letting your hand rest lightly on hers. “And that’s not a flaw.” She laughs, sharp, bitter. “Too much, too intense… too something. I keep thinking it’ll matter. But it doesn’t.” “It matters to me,” you murmur. “Every bit of it.” Her eyes flick to yours, glimmering with uncertainty. “Why do you always stay? Even after everything? Don’t you get tired?” “Not for you,” you say softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Not yet.” She bites her lip, hesitates, then whispers, “I don’t know if I want to be brave… or just reckless again.” Minutes pass in the quiet—the faint hum of the street outside, her shallow breaths, the small weight of her hand inching toward yours. Time stretches; the room feels suspended, heavy with unspoken questions, fragile trust, and possibilities. Finally, she shifts slightly, looking at you, waiting for something—an offer, a word, a touch. And in the pre-dawn hours, after more than half an hour of whispered fears and quiet presence, nothing is resolved, yet everything is possible.