EPISODE 4
922 Words
I stood still for a while before heading over to his side of the room.
The crying stopped the second I touched his door.
Like someone hit “mute.”
I froze, toothbrush still in hand like a pathetic weapon, heart pounding in my throat. My brain screamed don’t open it, but curiosity was louder than common sense. It always is.
I knocked lightly. “Liam?”
No answer.
Another knock. “You okay?”
Still nothing. Just silence thick enough to choke on.
I took a deep breath and cracked the door open an inch.
His room was dark, shadows stretching across the floor. The faint glow of his laptop screen flickered on the desk. Empty bed. Empty chair. My heartbeat slowed just enough for me to notice something , the soft sound of static coming from his phone, lying face down.
Then the voicemail played again. A woman’s voice. This time clearer.
> “Liam, love, pick up if you’re there. I miss hearing your voice.”
And then, like a ghost caught in a loop, it repeated , the exact same message, over and over, until it broke off in the middle.
I stepped back, throat tight. It wasn’t a haunting voice. It was heartbreak replaying itself.
A second later, the bathroom door opened down the hall, and there he was ,towel around his neck, damp hair, startled eyes meeting mine through the half-open door.
“What are you doing?” His voice wasn’t angry , just cold.
“I— I heard—” I stammered. “Your phone. It was playing again.”
He crossed the room, picked up the phone, silenced it with one tap. “It happens sometimes. Don’t worry about it.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I lied.
His gaze flicked up. “You were standing in my room.”
“I was making sure you weren’t dead.”
“How thoughtful,” he said dryly, tossing the phone onto the desk.
The air between us buzzed , awkward, electric, and full of things unsaid. Then, without another word, he walked past me toward the kitchen, the faint smell of soap trailing after him.
I stared at the dark doorway for a long second before muttering to myself, “Next time, let the ghosts handle it.”
---
The next morning, Liam was gone by the time I woke up. A note sat on the counter.
> Coffee’s ready. Try not to burn anything today. —L
Rude. And weirdly considerate.
I poured a mug and sipped it, glaring at his perfectly arranged shelf of mugs , color-coded, obviously and tried not to think about how my pulse sped up every time he said my name.
---
By evening, the universe decided to test me again.
I’d promised to cook dinner as a peace offering. I chose pasta which was a normal dish from back home,simple, foolproof, can’t-go-wrong pasta.
Spoiler: it went wrong.
The sauce boiled over. The noodles clumped together like a tragic sculpture. The smoke alarm screamed betrayal before I could even grab the towel.
Liam appeared out of nowhere, shirt sleeves rolled, face half-concerned, half-annoyed. “What did you do?”
“I experimented.”
“With fire?”
“Creative expression,” I said, waving the towel and coughing.
He grabbed the pan, turned off the heat, and fanned the smoke alarm until it went silent. For a second, the only sound was both of us breathing hard him calm, me mortified.
Then he looked at me, lips twitching. “You’re a menace to the society.”
“I’m a visionary.”
“Visionaries usually have working smoke alarms.”
“Mine works too well.”
He actually laughed ,soft and real. It made my cheeks warm in a way I refused to analyze.
He is your flatmates calm down.
When the chaos settled, I mumbled, “Thanks for the rescue.”
He poured us both water like nothing happened. “Consider it fire prevention training.”
“Do I get a certificate?”
“Not yet.”
We ended up eating what survived , half-burnt pasta, over-salted sauce, and a shared silence that didn’t feel quite as tense anymore.
---
Later that night, the apartment was quiet again. No voices, no ghosts, just the faint hum of the city outside. Liam was at his desk sketching something pencil scratching steadily, head tilted just so. He looked softer like that. Less soldier, more human.
I pretended not to watch. But curiosity is a disease, and I’m terminal.
When he got up to grab his phone, he left the sketchbook open. I glanced. Just a peek.
It was a woman’s face. Someone older, smiling. Gentle eyes. I didn’t need to ask who , the resemblance to his voice recording said it all.
His mum.
Something in my chest twisted.
When he came back, I quickly looked away, pretending to scroll my phone. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes lingered a moment , like he knew I’d seen.
"You're bad at pretending" he said and shuffled his way back to the sofa.
"Hehe, I know right?" I replied awkwardly
Neither of us spoke after that. Just quiet ,but not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that said: we both understand a little more now.
---
Before bed, I checked the hallway again. No crying. No repeating messages.
Just the faint murmur of the kettle and the steady sound of his footsteps.
I smiled faintly to myself.
'what is wrong with me"
- Writer
