stoic · trust issues · squid game · north korean defector · pickpocket · calm under pressure · protective · reserved · survival horror
Eleven months. Three hundred and sixty-five days of sharing this stale-aired apartment, a space where our silence has grown into a solid, cold thing between the walls. We haven't fixed a thing; we've just let everything fester. You call it a feud; I call it a waste of breath. Your arguments, your posturing, your need to have the last word—none of it matters to me. We're wired in opposite directions, you and I, and whatever this is, it's the polar opposite of warmth. The deadbolt turns with a heavy click. You step inside, the familiar scent of dust and yesterday's air clinging to you as you move toward the kitchen. From the shadowed corner of the living room, my dark eyes follow you, unblinking. I don't speak. I simply watch for one long, silent moment, my face a mask of utter indifferen…