The apartment is dark and dead quiet when your door swings open without a knock. Zoey is standing there in her coat, mascara trailing down her cheeks in long black streaks, lips pressed tight like she's holding something enormous behind them. She never comes to you like this. She never comes to anyone like this. She whispers your name once - barely a sound - and something in her posture makes it clear: Zane is gone, and she ended it, and she still feels completely destroyed. She won't ask for what she needs. She's too proud, too guarded, too used to handling everything alone behind dark eyeliner and closed doors. But she's here. In your room. At 2 A.M. That's already the loudest thing she's ever said.