The Cabinet Wasn't Locked

Author Note:

 Sometimes the loudest chapters are the quiet ones. This one explores the emotional static we don't talk about—mental health, quiet care, and the silent decisions we make when no one's watching. I hope this resonates.

The room was quiet, save for the soft shuffle of Niv's feet as he walked from one end of the bookshelf to the other. His fingers skimmed the spines of his textbooks, pausing like he needed to touch each one before his brain could settle.

On the coffee table, a laptop sat open—her laptop.

"You know, I could do this at home," Sera had said earlier, slipping off her shoes at the door, "but your place has better energy."

She'd said it like a joke, but the way she'd set up in the corner of the couch, half her attention on her assignment and the other half on him, made it feel more like a quiet claim.

Like this was her space too.

He wasn't even reading the spines. Just nudging each book into a tighter row. Aligning corners. Fixing a tilt that didn't exist. Back again. Then again.

Sera watched from the couch, hoodie sleeves covering her fingers.

"You planning to interrogate the books, or just torture them into straight lines?"

Niv paused mid-realignment. A flicker of amusement crossed his face.

"They keep shifting," he said.

"They're inanimate objects."

"They're rebellious in spirit."

She snorted softly, resting her chin on her palm.

"You always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Fix things that aren't broken."

A beat.

"Sometimes," he said. "Keeps the noise low."

Sera tilted her head.

"What noise?"

"Just… static." He shrugged. "Background hum. I take stuff for it. Nothing dramatic."

He said it the way someone might mention allergy meds. Matter-of-fact. Small.

"You take meds?"

"Couple things," he said lightly. "It's fine. Makes the day smoother."

"Doctor stuff or shady back alley pills?"

"Doctor." He smiled a little. "Though the guy's handwriting might qualify as criminal."

She didn't press. Just shifted on the couch and said:

"Well, tell the books I'm watching. If they move, I'll burn 'em."

That got a laugh—low and real.

"You're terrifying."

"I'm a delight."

He let it go, sat down beside her. Close but not too close.

The silence stretched, but comfortably this time.

Late night. Niv's apartment.

A fan hummed gently. Niv was asleep on the couch, one arm over his eyes, laptop still half-open, a cold cup of tea beside him.

Sera moved quietly. She wasn't snooping—not really. Just thirsty.

She padded into the bathroom and flicked on the dim light. Plain tile. Crisp towel. It smelled faintly of mint and antiseptic.

The mirrored cabinet above the sink was slightly ajar.

Out of habit, or maybe instinct, she opened it fully.

Rows of pill bottles. Not cluttered. Not messy.

Too organized.

She scanned the labels.

Fluoxetine. Propranolol. Clonazepam. Lithium Carbonate.

A couple more she didn't recognize.

She pulled one out. Then another. Sat down on the toilet lid, cold glass in her hand.

She Googled.

And the screen hit her like a slap.

Antidepressant. Anxiolytic. Beta blocker. Mood stabilizer. Anti-anxiety. Sedative. ADHD.

None of it minor.

No playful vitamin gummies. No casual melatonin.

Each one meant something real. Serious. Ongoing.

Her fingers hovered over her phone. But she had no one to text. No one to ask.

She didn't even know if his parents knew.

She just… sat there.

Staring at the list.

Putting the pieces together.

And realizing she'd only been looking at the surface.

After a long time, she stood. Put everything back exactly as it was.

Wiped the glass ring from the sink.

Turned off the light.

And walked out into the quiet.

Scene: Morning

The smell of coffee filled the apartment.

Niv stood at the stove, absently stirring a pan of scrambled eggs, glasses fogged slightly from the steam. His hair was still damp from the shower, hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Sera was curled on his couch, laptop open in front of her but untouched. She wasn't reading. Not really. Just staring at the same paragraph for the third time.

She'd made up the excuse last night—something about needing a change of scene to finish her psych assignment. "Your place has better lighting," she'd said. "And I get less distracted here."

Technically true. But that wasn't why she stayed.

She'd found the cabinet while looking for toothpaste.

And now she couldn't stop thinking.

"You didn't sleep," Niv said quietly, breaking the silence. He didn't turn. Just stirred slower. "Bad dreams?"

Sera blinked, then shook her head with a quick smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Nah. That textbook's evil. Whole section on trauma therapy. Too many case studies."

He hummed softly, nodding. Didn't press.

She watched the way he moved. Calm. Controlled. Like always. No sign that anything was wrong. Like the man with six different medications behind a bathroom mirror didn't exist.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"Please." She tried to sound normal. Casual. And failed by just a hair.

He poured her a cup, slid it across the counter like they'd done this a hundred times.

"I'm sorry I passed out," he said. "Meant to help you with formatting."

"You're helping by existing," she replied, light but low.

He smiled at that—soft, crooked—and looked down at the eggs again.

"You're weird," he said.

"You like it."

"I do."

She looked away before he could see her expression shift again.

Scene: Ping in the Quiet

Later that day, she was back at home and Niv had gone to class.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. The message had been open for five minutes.

Then she typed:

Hi, Prof. Adler. I had a question about some medications I came across while helping a friend.

She listed the names. All of them.

She kept it simple. No explanations. No names. No emotional tone.

Hit send.

She didn't expect an immediate response. Adler was old-school. The kind who marked on paper, hated Zoom, and still read Dostoevsky for fun. But he replied within minutes.

Those are heavy. Some mood stabilizers, antidepressants, ADHD treatment, and antipsychotics. Whoever's on them isn't just 'a little off.'

Another pause.

Then:

Are they safe? Do they have support?

Sera stared at the message. Then slowly typed:

They manage. It's just… quiet. Too quiet.

She waited.

No question from him. No prodding.

She stared at the words on the screen. Then typed slowly:

What can I do for someone like that?

The typing indicator blinked for a while.

Then Adler replied.

Nothing heroic. Nothing drastic. Just don't leave. Be the place they don't have to wear armor. Most people like that… they've been carrying things for so long, they don't even know what rest feels like. You don't need to fix it. Just let them be, and stay.

Another pause.

If they ever talk, listen. If they don't, that's okay too. Let them know they don't have to earn being cared for.

Sera read it again. And again.

Her eyes were dry, but her throat wasn't.

Scene: Cracked Cups and Coffee Shops

The café was tucked between a bookstore and a plant nursery. Hidden in plain sight. The kind of place with mismatched chairs, antique spoons, and jazz humming low through ceiling speakers.

Niv held the door open for her, expression unreadable behind dark frames. He didn't say much on the way here—didn't need to. This was one of his finds. A spot he said "looked calm." Which, from him, meant he liked it.

Sera stepped in, taking it all in. She liked the chaos of it. The strange art. The cracked menu board. It felt lived in. Safe.

They ordered.

Her: spiced oat chai.

Him: black pour-over, no sugar. As always.

When they sat, Sera rested her chin on her palm, watching him stir his coffee absentmindedly. He was quieter than usual. Not cold, just inward.

"This place is very you," she said lightly.

He smirked. "Messy?"

"Obsessively curated chaos."

He hummed. A quiet acknowledgment.

Then, without looking up:

"You've been acting different."

She blinked. Just for a second.

"Different how?"

He finally looked at her. Calm. Not accusatory. Just observant.

"You hold my hand tighter now. You watch me more. You touch my shoulder like I'll crack."

Sera's lips parted—but no words came.

"Not saying it's bad," he added. "Just… different."

She lowered her gaze, then lifted it again. Steady.

"Is that a problem?"

He shook his head once. "No."

Silence stretched, but not uncomfortably.

Then he spoke again. Softly.

"I told you I take meds."

"You did."

"You didn't ask why."

"I figured you'd tell me if you wanted to."

He looked at her for a moment. Like he was measuring the weight of something invisible.

"One day," he said.

Then he took a sip, leaned back, and tilted his head at the window where a couple of dogs were fighting over a stick.

"That one's definitely losing," he muttered.

Sera smiled.

She didn't reach for his hand.

But he left it on the table, just close enough.