The house was always quiet. Too quiet for a place meant to be lived in.
The walls absorbed every sound, leaving Kyle alone with the low hum of his laptop and the distant ticking of the clock. He had grown used to it.
The quiet wrapped around him like a heavy blanket — soft, but unrelenting. It filled his room, his thoughts, and his days. It felt safer than words ever could.
He sat on his bed; the laptop balanced on his knees. The only light came from the screen — pale, cold, steady. It traced his fingers, his wrists, the sharp lines of his face, while the rest of the room dissolved into shadow.
Most of his time was spent like this — behind the screen, in the quiet.
Here, nothing demanded eye contact. Nothing waited for answers.
Silence wasn't a punishment here. It was a choice.
The house shifted somewhere deep inside its bones. A soft creak. Pipes, maybe. Or just the building settling into itself.
Kyle didn't look up.
He knew every sound this place made — the distant echo of voices behind closed doors. He knew which sounds meant presence, and which meant absence.
And absence was more familiar.
He adjusted the headphones around his neck but didn't put them on.
The darkness felt calm. Almost safe, as long as he stayed still. It didn't ask anything of him.
In this house, safety had always been conditional.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard. The cursor blinked back at him — patient, impassive. It didn't care how long he hesitated. It didn't expect him to be better, stronger, different.
Kyle exhaled.
Here, he could disappear without consequence — invisible by choice, not by neglect.
The laptop hummed softly under his palms, warm and reliable.
Beyond his room, the house remained vast and hollow, filled with spaces meant for people who spoke over him, past him, around him. Spaces that only listened when it was convenient.
Kyle lowered his gaze back to the screen. Behind it, the quiet listened.
And tonight, that was enough.