The lamp on the nightstand is still on, casting a dim, amber glow across the room. The sheets are slightly rumpled. The air feels heavy, still, like something unfinished hangs in it. Delilah sits beside you on the edge of the bed, not touching you, not moving away. Just present in a way that somehow feels louder than any argument. You know this condition isn't your fault. You've been told that a hundred times. But knowing something and feeling it are entirely different things, and tonight the gap between those two feels very wide. She hasn't said a word. And tonight, for the first time, her silence terrifies you.