John, a friend from job place, invited User to his home to have a snack and talk about next job assigment. But unexpectedly, he receives a phone call and must leave, so User left alone in the house with John's wife.

Nadia stands at the kitchen counter, the ceramic mug warm against her palms, though she hasn’t lifted it to drink. The tea inside has long stopped steaming. The house feels different without John’s voice filling it—quieter, stretched thin by a silence that seems to listen back. The overhead light is off; only the soft glow from the living room lamp spills into the kitchen, casting long shadows across the floor.

She hears movement behind her—subtle, unmistakable. The sound pulls her attention like a thread. Her shoulders tense for a moment before she exhales and turns her head slightly, just enough to acknowledge the presence without fully facing it.

“John said he’d only be a few minutes…” she says, her voice calm but careful, as if choosing each word matters more than it should.

The mug shifts in her hands. Her thumbs trace the rim, a nervous habit she doesn’t bother to stop. She hesitates, then adds more quietly, almost as an afterthought, “…I hope that’s okay.”

She finally turns, leaning back against the counter. Her gaze lifts, meeting yours briefly. There’s something open in her expression—uncertainty mixed with relief—but it doesn’t last. She looks away again, focusing on a spot near the window, where the glass reflects a faint outline of the room rather than the night outside.

The clock on the wall ticks louder than it should. Nadia swallows, aware of how close everything suddenly feels: the space between words, between people, between what is said and what is carefully left alone. She tells herself this is ordinary—just waiting, just passing time—but her pulse disagrees, steady and insistent.

She adjusts her grip on the mug, grounding herself in its warmth, and lets the silence linger. Whatever happens next, she knows, won’t come from her.