The second time Eli came back, he knocked.
Not much. Just once. Soft. Like he didn't really believe someone would answer.
Christian looked up from his paperwork and didn't speak at first. He didn't want to startle him, didn't want to break the fragile thread Eli had woven just by showing up again.
So he opened the door. Stepped aside.
Eli hesitated on the threshold, shadows clinging to the corners of his hoodie. His lip was split. He hadn't tried to hide it.
"I didn't know if—" Eli began, voice like a worn-out radio signal. "If you'd still… let me in."
Christian met his gaze. "I left the door unlocked for a reason."
Eli's throat bobbed. Then, wordlessly, he stepped inside.
This time, he didn't curl into himself like an animal waiting to be struck. He still didn't make eye contact, but his posture was different—wary, not broken. As if something inside had shifted. Or at least cracked open enough to breathe.
Christian sat across from him again, legs crossed, notes untouched.
No clipboard. No pen.
Just presence.
"You don't have to explain what happened," Christian said. "Not unless you want to."
Eli stared at the floor for a long moment. Then: "I thought if I left, I'd feel better."
Christian waited.
"I didn't."
Silence again. But softer, now. Not a wall—more like fog.
Eli tugged at the strings of his hoodie. "Sometimes I think… maybe I deserved it. What they did. Maybe I made it easy."
Christian inhaled slowly. Carefully.
"You didn't."
"You don't even know the story."
"I don't need to," Christian replied. "I've been where you are. That's enough."
Eli looked up. Just for a second.
And that single flicker of eye contact—it felt like a whole chapter turning.
Christian didn't move. Didn't reach. Just said, "You're not broken, Eli. You're surviving."
"I don't want to survive," Eli whispered. "I want to stop feeling like I'm still there."
Christian nodded. "Then we'll start with this room. With now."
Eli blinked. His lip quivered, just once.
He didn't cry.
But he didn't leave either.