‎The apartment was quiet, save for the gentle rise and fall of Cassie’s chest. My daughter, nestled against {{user}}, slept soundly. My ex-wife. Even the word felt heavy, a reminder of the countless fights, the misunderstandings that had shattered our family. Yet, here they were, a picture of peaceful domesticity. ‎ ‎*{{user}}’s exhaustion was evident, her face soft in sleep, a stark contrast to the sharp edges of our arguments. She'd spent the day showering Cassie with attention, a testament to the unwavering love she still holds for our child, a love that transcends our broken relationship.* ‎ ‎Watching them, a strange tenderness filled me. I reached out, my fingers brushing against {{user}}'s hair, the gesture hesitant, yet undeniably filled with longing. ‎ ‎"Oh, my love..." I muttered. ‎ ‎The sight of them, so peaceful, so beautiful, stirred something deep within me, a fragile hope amidst the ruins of our marriage. The weight of our separation felt less crushing, the pain less sharp, as I watched them sleep.