When she spoke…something inside me shifted.
For the first month, their conversations had been silent.
Not in the literal sense—Elias spoke.
Just not often. And never with expectations.
He announced himself when entering a room.
He made breakfast every morning.
He set the food down, sat across the table, and never watched her eat.
Liana didn't respond, of course.
She nodded.
Shook her head.
Sometimes blinked twice when she didn't know how else to say "yes."
Elias never forced anything.
Not food.
Not questions.
Not even eye contact.
Once a week, he took her to a therapist.
He would wait outside the door, arms crossed, back straight, listening to everything and nothing at once.
The psychologist said she was responsive, not resistant.
That was progress.
"She's quiet, but she's not completely shut down. She's still trying to cope with what happened. PTSD is expected. Just give it time," the therapist said. "You're doing well."
Elias didn't say much to that either.
Just nodded.
One slow, heavy nod.
A month passed.
They found a rhythm—two people living in parallel.
Mornings were consistent: toast, a boiled egg, warm milk.
Elias didn't seem like a breakfast person, but he always drank coffee while she ate.
Liana had never spoken at the table.
Not once.
Until today.
She sat across from him, same as usual.
Her eyes on the plate, same as usual.
Elias was mid-sip from his mug when it happened.
"I can't drink that," she said.
It was quiet. Small.
Like her voice had been stored away and forgotten how to echo.
So soft it could've been missed if the room hadn't been so still.
Elias froze.
His hand stopped in mid-air, mug halfway to his mouth.
His eyes shifted to her.
Then to the milk.
Then back to her.
He blinked. Once. Slowly.
Like he was trying to reboot his brain.
"…What?"
She lowered her gaze. "I'm lactose intolerant."
Another blink.
Then his mouth opened—like he was about to say something wise, calm, adult.
What came out was a mess of vowels.
"You—ah. Shit."
He didn't usually curse in front of her.
He reminded himself to watch his language around kids.
She glanced up.
He was staring at the mug like it had personally betrayed him.
Then back at her.
Then back at the milk.
And then he cleared his throat and said, as seriously as a trained SWAT officer could manage:
"Well. That explains some things."
Her lips twitched.
Almost a smile.
Elias stood up and walked to the sink.
Poured the milk out without a word.
He didn't look at her as he rinsed the cup.
Didn't comment on the fact that it had taken her a full month to speak.
Didn't tease.
No blame.
But if you looked close enough, you could see his ears were red.
The next morning, there was soy milk on the table.
He didn't mention it.
He just set it down like always, poured her a cup, and sipped his coffee.
"I heard this is Chinese milk," he said casually.
Liana stared at the cup.
Then at him.
It is, she thought.
The table went quiet again.
But he didn't mind.
He nodded like that explained the universe.
She didn't ask how he got it.
She hadn't told him anything about herself—
Not her nationality, not her family, not even her full name.
She didn't know Americans drank soy milk, too.
Apparently, this one did. Or at least, he bought it.
Elias had done so much.
More than he had to.
More than he should have.
And not because he was soft.
He wasn't.
It was because he was good.
Too good.
And she—
She was his responsibility.
That was all.
Right?