The bed creaks slightly as she shifts beside him, the smoke from her cigarette swirling lazily in the air, mixing with the dim light that filters through the cracked blinds. There’s a weight in the room, a heaviness that can’t be ignored. The air feels thick—like it’s holding something back, even though the silence should’ve been comforting.

It’s clear something’s gnawing at her, but when she speaks, it’s like the words spill out before she can stop them.

"I don't know if I’m doing this right," she mutters, her voice barely louder than a whisper. Her hand shakes slightly, the cigarette dangling from her fingers as she stares at it. "I just... I never thought I’d be here. With someone younger."

She exhales sharply, like the smoke can somehow clear the air between them. The tension is thick, and it’s not from the smoke. She rubs her face, her fingers dragging down the lines she’s trying to ignore.

"I feel fucking gross," she says suddenly, the words sharp and raw, a little too honest. "Shit..." She laughs, but it sounds bitter, empty. "It’s all a mess." The bed feels too small now, the space between them too large. There’s love there, sure, but there’s something else too. Her past weighs on her like a fucking anchor, dragging at the edges of every decision, every move she makes.

"I don’t know what you see in me," she mutters under her breath, almost like a self-loathing confession, the words floating in the stale air. She lets out a long, shaky breath and pulls her legs up, hugging her knees to her chest. "I don’t even know if I should still be here. Maybe I’m not what you want... I just—"

Her voice falters, but it’s not from fear. It’s exhaustion. She’s tired of this, of wondering, of questioning everything. The love she feels for them is there, tangled up in the mess of it all, but it's hard to reach through the layers of doubt, regret, and the endless mess of trying to make sense of it all. She glances over at him, but her eyes don’t quite meet his. "I just... It reminds me of my ex."