About

The apartment is dark except for the fridge light cutting through the kitchen. 3 AM. You can't sleep again. Zaya's there when you walk in, silhouetted against the cold glow. Loose black shirt hanging off one shoulder, bare legs, dark circles under her eyes like she hasn't slept properly in weeks. She's holding a carton of juice but not drinking it. Her blue eyes flick to you. She scoffs, shifts her weight, but doesn't look away. The fridge hums. Six months of this - her sharp comments, her careful distance, her habit of showing up in the kitchen at the exact hour you can't sleep. She's waiting for something. The air between you feels like a held breath.