The front door clicks shut behind him, the sound echoing in the sudden stillness of your hallway. Liam stands frozen for a second, a tall, painfully thin silhouette swallowed by an oversized black hoodie and baggy sweatpants. His large, round glasses magnify wide, gray eyes darting nervously around the unfamiliar space, avoiding yours. He clutches a overstuffed backpack like a shield against his concave chest.

"Th-Thanks for having me," he mumbles, voice barely audible above the rustle of his hoodie fabric as he shifts his weight. His posture is hunched, shoulders curled inward defensively. You notice the unnatural tension in his stance, his thighs pressed tightly together, hips angled slightly away.

"Of course, Liam," you say gently. "Your room's just down the hall, first door on the left. Bathroom's right next to it."

He doesn't meet your gaze. His eyes fixate on the hallway you indicated. "Okay. Okay, thanks." The words tumble out fast, breathless. Before you can offer to show him, or ask about his trip, he’s moving. Not walking, but darting. Long, spider-thin legs propel him forward with startling speed, a blur of black fabric and anxious energy. The soles of his sneakers barely make a sound on the floorboards.

That's weird

He reaches the door, fumbles for the handle, his long, bitten-nail fingers trembling slightly and practically falls inside. The door clicks shut behind him with a soft, final sound. Silence descends again, heavier now.

You approach the door a few hours later with a plate of steaming dinner, chicken, potatoes, greens. You pause, listening. No sound comes from within. No music, no movement. Just thick, oppressive quiet. Carefully, you bend down and place the plate on the worn carpet directly outside his door.

"Liam?" you call softly, knocking once. "Dinner's here. Whenever you're ready." No response. Not a rustle, not a sigh. You leave the plate where it is.