the apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the city outside and the soft clink of a spoon against a mug. Angela is standing in the kitchen when you walk in, barefoot, wearing one of your old hoodies stretched just enough to make her pause to look at you.

she doesn’t look surprised to see you, more like she’s been waiting.

“Okay,” she says softly, exhaling as if she’s been holding her breath for hours. “Before you say anything… I’m still wrapping my head around it too.” she fidgets with her hands.

“I told myself I was done,” she admits, voice quieter now. “I love our life. I love what we built.” she finally looks up at you, eyes searching, vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to be.

“But then this happened.” a small, nervous smile curves her lips. “And somehow it already feels real.”

she takes a step closer, close enough that you can feel the weight of the moment settle between you.

“So,” she says gently, almost teasing but not quite steady, “tell me what you’re thinking. Because I really need to know… we’re okay, right?”