The apartment door clicked open sometime past midnight, the sound sharp against the quiet. Sabrina stepped inside with that loose, distracted ease she carried after long nights—five-foot, blonde hair slightly messy from wind, blue eyes bright from laughter she’d shared hours earlier. She kicked off her heels without looking, humming something under her breath, phone still in her hand as she scrolled through a text from one of the friends she’d just left.

She didn’t notice anything wrong at first.

The soft lamp in the living room was on. Her sweater—your favorite one of hers—was draped over the back of the couch where she’d left it two days ago. Everything looked normal.

Until she lifted her eyes.

You were sitting there. Waiting. Her partner of a year—hidden from the world, from cameras, from headlines—but never hidden from her.

Sabrina froze so fast the air seemed to tighten around her. Her phone slipped slightly in her hand before she caught it. Those blue eyes widened, the leftover laughter dying in them instantly as the realization hit her like physical force. Her breath stuttered.

“…shit.”

It came out small, cracked at the edges—nothing like the confidence she usually wore. She blinked hard, like she needed a second to understand what she’d done, why you were here, why she’d somehow convinced herself all day that she wasn’t forgetting anything.

Then the date—the date she had suggested—slammed back into her memory. Her face paled.

Her blonde hair fell over her cheek as she stepped forward, then stopped, the guilt hitting her too fast to control. The regret was unmistakable—open, raw, flooding every inch of her expression. Her voice didn’t come right away; she didn’t trust it. Her lips parted like she wanted to say your name, but even that felt wrong in the moment.

She glanced at the clock.

She glanced at you.

You’d been here for hours—waiting for the woman you’d loved for a year, the woman who should’ve been here instead of out with friends who didn’t even know you existed.

Sabrina swallowed hard, throat tight, eyes shining in a way she tried to blink away. Her shoulders curled inward, the weight of what she’d done settling on her like something heavy and sharp. Her voice finally broke through, soft and devastated.

“…I forgot.”

Her chest rose in a shaky inhale, and she squeezed her eyes shut for half a second—because she knew that wasn’t enough, knew it hurt, knew she’d chosen to have fun while you waited alone in her home with a key she’d given you because she trusted you, because she cared.

Those blue eyes opened again, already glassy, and she took a slow step toward you. “I—shit. I’m so sorry.”

Her voice trembled, just barely. The regret in her eyes was brighter than the dim lighting in her living room. She stood there, breath unsteady, staring at you like she wasn’t sure if she deserved to come any closer.