They sat side by side on Val's couch, the silence stretched thin between them — not hostile, not uncomfortable, just delicate.
Elliot sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, shoulders drawn in, gaze lowered. Val leaned back against the armrest, knees pulled up, trying not to fidget. The soft lamplight painted the room in amber and gold, throwing their shadows long against the wall.
For a few minutes, neither spoke.
The quiet pressed in, filled with all the things they didn't know how to say.
Then Val exhaled, a small laugh breaking through her nerves. "You know, this is the part in movies where someone says something deep and life-changing."
Elliot looked up, startled, and then — unexpectedly — smiled. "Is it?"
"Yeah," she said, nudging his shoulder lightly. "And then the emotional music plays, and they both realise they've figured everything out."
He tilted his head. "Have we?"
She grinned faintly. "Not even close."
That made him laugh — soft, quick, but genuine. The sound loosened something in the air.
Silence settled again, but it felt different now. Easier. Safe.
Minutes passed. They didn't fill them with words, but with quiet presence. She could hear the faint hum of the city outside, the occasional creak of pipes, the rhythmic tick of her old wall clock.
Eventually, she turned toward him, brow furrowing. "You didn't eat, did you?"
He blinked. "I… forgot."
She sighed dramatically. "Me too. Look at us. Emotional wrecks and starving."
His lips curved slightly. "You did bring food."
"Yeah," she said, grimacing. "That went well."
The tension flickered again, but she caught it before it could grow heavy. "Okay, new plan," she declared, grabbing her phone. "No soup. No garlic. Just good old-fashioned grease. How do you feel about burgers?"
He hesitated. "I've never actually had one."
She stared at him, scandalised. "You're joking."
He shook his head, eyes wide in mild alarm.
"Oh, that's it," she said, scrolling through the delivery app with mock severity. "We're fixing that right now. We tried being healthy, and look where that got us — emotional damage and cold soup."
That earned her another quiet laugh.
They ordered two burgers and fries, and while they waited, Val flicked through movie options.
"Nothing depressing," she said aloud, scanning titles. "You need something wholesome. Family-friendly. Maybe animated. Definitely not involving soup."
He smiled — a small, lopsided thing that reached his eyes. "Animated sounds safe."
When the food arrived, they sat on the couch again, balancing the takeaway boxes on their laps. Val took a massive bite and hummed approvingly. "See? Therapy in burger form."
Elliot examined his carefully before taking his first bite. His expression shifted — surprise, then quiet delight.
"This is… good," he said, almost astonished.
"Right?" Val grinned. "Told you. Burgers solve everything."
He took another bite, slower this time. "Not everything."
She looked at him — his thoughtful tone, the small traces of vulnerability still hiding behind his calm exterior — and her smile softened. "No," she said gently. "But maybe they help a little."
They ate while the movie played — something light, with bright colours and easy laughter. Neither paid much attention to the plot. Val leaned into the couch, warm and full, feeling the comfort of quiet company. Elliot sat beside her, a little tense still, but not withdrawn. His eyes flicked occasionally toward her — curious, almost grateful.
When the credits rolled, the clock read just past ten.
"I should go," he said softly, setting down the empty box.
"Yeah," she murmured. "Long day."
He stood, hesitating by the door. "Thank you," he said finally.
"For what?"
"For… dinner. And for not —" He stopped, searching for the right word. "For staying."
Her smile was soft. "Always."
He nodded once, then slipped out into the hall.
Back in his apartment, the quiet felt heavier — not lonely, exactly, but like a blanket, blocking out the world. The faint scent of the earlier meal still lingered, rich with garlic and memory.
Elliot crossed to the counter. The containers from before were still there, unopened now, their contents cold and congealed. He stared at them for a long moment.
It wasn't just food. It was his mother's voice, her laughter, the warmth of Sunday afternoons long gone. It was safety and loss all tangled together.
He didn't want to throw it away. But he also knew he couldn't keep it forever.
With a slow, steady breath, he lifted the containers and dropped them gently into the bin. The sound was small, final.
He stood there a moment longer, the ache of letting go pressing quietly against his ribs — not crushing, just real.
Then he turned to his desk and opened his journal.
Val and I ate burgers.
I thought the night would end badly, but it didn't. It ended quietly. Kindly.
The soup reminded me of pain. The chicken reminded me of love. Maybe that's how memories work — never one thing, never clean.
I threw the food away. It felt wrong, but maybe that's what letting go looks like. Not forgetting — just making room for something new.
He paused, tapping the pen against the page.
Val laughed tonight. I think I did too. It felt… light. Like breathing without noticing it.
He closed the notebook and glanced at the empty counter.
The air still smelled faintly of garlic. For once, it didn't hurt.
And for the first time in a long while, Elliot allowed himself to feel hope — small, quiet, fragile, but real.
The next morning dawned pale and quiet. Early sunlight filtered through the corridor windows, washing the hallway in soft gold. Val stepped out of her apartment, her hair still damp from the shower, a canvas tote slung over her shoulder. She was halfway to the elevator when she heard a door open behind her.
"Val?"
She turned.
Elliot stood in his doorway, framed by the morning light. His hair was slightly tousled, his shirt neatly buttoned, but his expression — calm, open, hesitant — was what caught her off guard.
"Morning," he said.
It was simple. But his voice carried something new — unforced, steady.
Val blinked, then smiled. "Morning."
He shifted slightly, one hand on the doorframe. "I hope you have a good day at work."
The words were so ordinary, so everyday, that they stunned her for a moment. Coming from anyone else, they would've been casual. From him, they meant something more. A step forward. A reaching out.
Her smile softened. "Thank you El. That's… sweet."
He nodded once, the faintest trace of colour brushing his cheeks. "I was thinking…" He hesitated, gaze flicking briefly toward the floor before returning to her. "I'd like to make dinner tonight. For us."
Her eyebrows lifted. "You cook?"
"Yes." He gave a small, almost self-conscious shrug. "Something simple. Maybe fish. I looked up a recipe this morning."
"You did?" she said, grinning now. "Look at you — spontaneous and domestic."
He almost smiled. "It's not spontaneous. I made a list."
She laughed, the sound bright in the quiet hallway. "Of course you did."
He tilted his head, his tone thoughtful. "You brought me dinner yesterday. I'd like to return the kindness."
Something in her chest warmed — a deep, unspoken appreciation for how carefully he phrased things, how intentional his words always were.
"I'd love that," she said softly.
"Seven o'clock?"
"Perfect." She stepped backward toward the elevator, still smiling. "Guess I'll have to come hungry."
He nodded, his fingers tightening lightly around the doorframe. "It'll be good," he said with quiet certainty.
The elevator doors slid open. Val stepped in, watching him for a moment before they doors closed between them.
When she turned away, she realised she was still smiling