I know Josh does not disappear from my life.
That is the thing. If he did, I would notice immediately.
Instead, he is present differently.
Over the next few days, our routines stay mostly intact. He still comes home around the same time. Still drops his bag near the door. Still steals my charger without asking. But somewhere between those familiar habits, something shifts just enough to make me pay closer attention.
He spends more time in his room.
Not locked. Not secretive. Just longer stretches with the door half closed, the light on, the quiet hum that means he is focused on something. When I pass by, I hear pages turning. Sometimes typing. Sometimes nothing at all.
Then he skips dinner once.
That is what really catches my attention.
Josh does not skip meals. Josh plans meals emotionally.
"You okay?" I ask later that night when I find him standing in front of the open fridge, staring into it like he expects answers to be hiding behind the milk.
"Yeah," he says easily. "Just was not hungry earlier."
I raise an eyebrow. He pretends not to see it.
The next morning he is quieter at breakfast. Not withdrawn. Just distant in a thoughtful way, like his mind stepped out for something and forgot to leave a note.
I tell myself I am imagining it. That I am projecting meaning onto harmless changes. That not everything needs to be decoded.
Still, when Alice comes home from work a couple of days later, I mention it casually, the way you do when you are trying not to sound like you are spiraling.
"Josh seems busy," I say, leaning against the counter while she kicks off her shoes.
"Busy how?" she asks, opening the fridge.
"I do not know. More time in his room. Missed a meal. Less noise."
She pauses, considers this with exaggerated seriousness, then nods. "That is it."
"That is what?"
"He is obviously building nuclear weapons."
I snort despite myself. "Obviously."
"Or planning world domination," she adds. "You never know with younger siblings. They are sneaky."
"Terrifying," I say. "I knew I should not have let him read my notebooks."
She grins, and the tension loosens just enough to let humor in. "Relax. He is fine. People get phases. Especially creative ones."
Creative.
The word lingers longer than the joke.
"Yeah," I say. "Maybe."
Alice bumps her shoulder lightly against mine as she passes. "If he starts wearing a cape, we will intervene."
I smile. I even laugh.
Later that night, when I walk past Josh's room and see the light still on, hear the faint scratch of pen against paper, something nudges at me again. Not fear. Not dread.
Awareness.
I stop outside his door for a moment. Consider knocking. Then decide against it.
Everyone deserves space to figure themselves out.
Even if part of me wonders what, exactly, he is figuring out.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The apartment feels different late at night.
Not louder. Not darker. Just thinner, like the walls are listening less carefully, like the world has stepped back and decided to give us privacy we didn't ask for.
Josh is asleep, or pretending to be. His door is closed, the hallway dim except for the small lamp near the couch. The city hums faintly through the windows, distant traffic sounding like a held breath.
Alice sits cross legged on the couch, hair loose, an old sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder. A mug rests in her hands, the tea inside long gone cold.
I hover near the kitchen counter, flipping my phone face down, then face up again, as if it might confess something if I pressure it enough.
We talked about Josh earlier. Not deeply. Just enough to dull my concern.
"He is fine, Ash," Alice had said. "Just in his own head lately."
I nodded like that solved anything.
Now there are no jokes left to reach for.
The silence stretches. Not awkward. Worse. Comfortable.
"You are pacing," Alice says.
I stop mid step. "Am I?"
"Yes," she replies. "You have crossed that tile six times. It is starting to feel judged."
I smile and move to the couch, sitting at the opposite end. A deliberate distance. I know exactly why I choose it.
"Sorry," I say. "Habit."
She watches me for a moment, then looks back at her mug. "You do that when you are thinking too hard."
I didn't ask how she knows. She always does.
"I am fine," I say.
She hums softly, unconvinced but not pushing.
The quiet settles again, heavier now. The kind that carries weight.
Alice shifts, turning toward me. Her knee brushes my thigh. Accidental. I know that because she freezes for half a second afterward.
Neither of us moves away.
"I meant what I said earlier," she says softly. "About Josh. He is figuring himself out. Like you did."
The words land somewhere sensitive.
"I did not figure anything out," I say. "I just ran at the page until it stopped scaring me."
She smiles. "That still counts."
Her fingers trace the rim of the mug, slow and absent. I notice everything. The way her shoulders loosen. The way she exhales like she has been holding something in all evening.
She looks at me then, really looks.
"Ash," she starts.
Something in her voice tightens my chest.
"Yes?"
She hesitates. Just a breath, but it is enough. I recognize that pause. I have lived inside pauses like that. I have hidden entire truths in them.
"I was thinking," she says, then laughs quietly. "That sounds ominous."
"It usually is," I reply.
She shakes her head. "I was thinking that we have been doing this for a while now. Living together. Talking like this. Late nights."
The air shifts. I feel it. A line coming into focus.
"We are good at being comfortable," she continues. "At pretending we do not notice things."
I stay silent. Not because I do not understand, but because I do.
Her voice drops. "Sometimes I wonder if we are being honest. Or just careful."
My heartbeat grows uncomfortably loud.
She sets the mug on the table. Her hands are empty now. That feels dangerous.
Alice leans closer, just slightly. Close enough that the space between us turns into a question.
"I do not want to scare you," she says. "I just"
The knock comes sharp and sudden.
We both flinch.
Alice pulls back instantly, hands retreating to her lap. The moment collapses as if it never existed.
Josh's door opens down the hall. "Sorry," he calls, voice groggy. "Forgot my charger."
He crosses the hallway without really looking at us, unplugs it from the wall, and disappears back into his room.
The door closes.
Silence returns.
But it is not the same silence.
Alice laughs awkwardly, running a hand through her hair. "Wow. Timing."
"Yeah," I say.
She looks at me, searching. Waiting. For permission. For rejection.
This is where the pattern would repeat if I let it.
I feel it clearly now. The pull. The ease of stepping forward and pretending I do not see the edge waiting underneath.
I stand.
Not abruptly. Carefully, like I am stepping around something fragile.
"I should write," I say.
Her expression flickers. Just for a moment. Something disappointed, quickly tucked away.
"Tonight?" she asks.
"I need to," I answer. "If I don't, my head will not shut up."
She nods. "Right. Of course."
I retreat to my room and close the door, leaving the lamp lit living room and everything we almost said behind.
I sit at my desk, open my notebook, and stare at the blank page.
My hands shake slightly.
I write anyway.
Because writing is safer than crossing lines I might never be able to uncross. Because stopping was the right thing.
I don't know why I still feel so ashamed.