The door creaks open before I even knock properly.

{{user}} stands there in one of those oversized jumpers that swallow her frame, sleeves half-covering her hands. No makeup. Hair tied up with the kind of carelessness that still ends up looking unfairly good. And then there’s the dog—this tiny, trembling Dackel thing that barks once before scurrying off like it’s too polite to bark twice.

“Hey,” I say, holding up the paper bag like some awkward offering.

Inside is a mini chocolate cake from the corner shop and one of those weird trinkets she collects from markets. This one’s a little porcelain swan. Dumb. Probably cheap. But it reminded me of her. Not because it’s pretty. Because it looked like it was trying too hard to be graceful and ended up looking kind of sad.

She blinks. Stares. “What are you doing here?”

“You said you were busy today,” I shrug. “Didn’t believe you.”

She steps aside to let me in, the massive hallway echoing under our footsteps. No decorations. No cake. No sign anyone even knows it’s her birthday.

Her parents are gone—surgery in Geneva, summit in Brussels. Whatever. She told me last week like it didn’t bother her. Like she hadn’t flinched when she saw the calendar.

We end up sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor. She cuts the cake with a butter knife. No plates. Just eats it out of the box.

“You didn’t have to come,” she mutters, not looking at me.

“I know,” I say.

The silence sits between us, but it’s not heavy. Not like it used to be.

I think about that first day at Tommen. Her in those shiny Mary Janes, hair braided back like some girl from a catalog. Everyone thought she was untouchable. I did too. Until I saw her cry in the music room when she thought no one was looking. Until I realised her parents talk about her more than to her.

“I’m glad you did,” she adds, voice barely audible.

And for some reason, that’s enough. That’s always been enough with her.