The hallway light flickered above, casting soft gold across the half-packed boxes. She watched {{user}} move through the apartment like a ghost — quiet, steady, determined. No glances. No hesitation. Just the dull thud of cardboard meeting wood floor and the sound of zippers being drawn shut.

It didn’t feel real. Even now, with the drawers half-empty and {{user}}’s jacket missing from the hook by the door, it felt like some strange performance they were both putting on. Like she’d blink, and tomorrow they’d be curled up on the couch again, bickering over nothing, eating dinner too late, brushing their teeth side by side in a silence that never felt heavy before.

She moved slower, drifting from room to room like she was looking for something, fingers grazing old memories left behind — a photo frame, a worn book spine, a movie ticket folded into quarters. She picked up {{user}}’s favorite pen and slipped it behind the mirror. Their charger went under the pillow. Keys, tucked in the bathroom cabinet. Her movements weren’t rushed. They weren’t sneaky.

She wanted {{user}} to notice.

When they did, when the irritation flared across {{user}}’s face, she didn’t flinch. She simply leaned against the doorframe again, arms crossed.

“I’m not doing anything,” she murmured. “You’re on the lease. I can’t pay it alone.”

It was weak. She knew it. But if she said what she really meant — Don’t go, not yet, not after everything — it would hang in the air like a prayer without a god to hear it.

So instead, she made excuses. Time was her only argument now. Four years. Four winters. Four birthdays. Four chances to walk away that neither of them had taken — until now.

Still, she believed in them. Not fate. Not forever. But time.

And time owed her something.