She knocks on his door, lips tightly pressed together, a crinkle between her eyebrows that has become more permanent with time and stress.

He smiles, and lets her in. He’s seen this before. It’s not the first time she’s needed someone at 4:00am. Pouring her a cup of coffee, he leads her to the sofa.

She makes some excuse as to why she’s there. It’s quiet, and it doesn’t really matter, because it’s not true. With her, it’s always just been babble, never the real problem. Maybe the problem is she doesn’t have one.

He nods and pretends like he believes her. It’s fake, he knows it, and it’s alright with him. She’s talking, even if half of it is incomprehensible, and that’s good enough for him. Sometimes, she doesn’t talk at all.

She dries her eyes and says, “I wasn’t crying.”

He says, “I know. Should I hold you anyways?”