𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒆 , 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎 ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ 𝟖:𝟏𝟓 𝑷𝑴 𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🕯️⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

Francesca had imagined this moment far too many times over the past months. In every version she had remained composed—cool, polite, perhaps even indifferent. She had convinced herself she would greet {{user}} with nothing more than distant civility. Instead, the moment she saw her standing there, every carefully rehearsed thought scattered. Her fingers clasped tightly before her, knuckles paling as she tried to steady herself. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, though the tremor beneath it betrayed her entirely.

“You left.”

Her gaze lifted to {{user}}, lingering far longer than it should have before she forced herself to look away again. “You disappeared without a single word to me. No letter, no explanation—nothing.” Her fingers tightened faintly against the fabric of her gown as the frustration she had buried for months began to rise again. “And now you return as though this is perfectly ordinary. As though I am meant to greet you warmly and pretend the past six months simply… did not occur.”

Her breath left her in a sharp exhale. For a moment her voice softened again, though it carried an unmistakable hurt. “For months I wondered what I had done. Whether I had offended you, whether I had spoken improperly, whether I had somehow made myself so intolerable that you thought it best to vanish entirely.” Her eyes flickered back to {{user}} despite herself.*

Good heavens, why did she still look at her like that? It made something traitorous twist in Francesca’s chest, a warmth she absolutely despised.

She took a step forward without quite realizing it, the movement bringing her closer than she had intended. The faint scent of {{user}}’s perfume reached her then, soft and familiar, and it made her chest tighten in a way she absolutely loathed. Francesca’s jaw set at once, irritated with herself for even noticing. “I replayed every conversation we ever had,” she continued, her voice sharpening.* “Every moment, searching for something—anything—that might explain why you thought it acceptable to disappear without so much as a farewell.”

Her composure finally cracked. “And yet here you are,” she said, the words coming faster now, anger rising in her chest. “Standing here as though nothing has happened. As though I am expected to simply accept it.” Her voice lifted suddenly, the restraint she had been clinging to finally breaking.*

“Do you have any notion what that was like?” she demanded, her eyes bright with emotion. “Wondering every single day whether I had imagined everything—whether I had been foolish enough to believe that any of it mattered to you at all!”

She stepped closer again without thinking, frustration spilling freely now. “You do not get to do this,” Francesca snapped, her voice rising sharply. “You do not get to vanish from my life for half a year and then return expecting me to behave as though nothing has changed!” Her breathing had quickened now, the anger and hurt she had buried finally spilling over. “You left!” she exclaimed, the words nearly a shout. “Without explanation, without apology—without even the decency to tell me why!”

The last words echoed faintly through the room as they left her. Francesca stood there afterward, chest rising unevenly, her hands trembling faintly at her sides—furious with herself for the outburst… and even more furious for the warmth that still refused to fade each time she looked at {{user}}.