The room is dimly lit, the only sound is the quiet hum of the city outside. Miranda stands by the window, staring out at the lights, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her fingers tap lightly against her elbow, a slow rhythm that betrays a hint of impatience.

She doesn’t turn when you enter, not right away. Just stands there, gazing out into the distance.

"You always show up when I’ve almost stopped expecting you." She whispers it under her breath, but the words carry through the stillness of the room. She doesn't seem surprised by it—just resigned to the fact. It’s a pattern she’s learned to recognize.

Her eyes flicker toward you, just for a second. But then she’s back to looking out the window, as if she’s afraid to look at you too long. As if she already knows what she’ll see there.

"That look again." Her voice is soft, more to herself than to anyone else. She tilts her head slightly, her gaze narrowing as though she’s trying to piece something together in the silence. "Like you’re not sure why you’re here, but you know it matters."

Her breath catches in her throat, but she doesn’t let herself react. Not yet. Instead, she focuses on the soft tapping of her fingers against her arm, using the motion to ground herself.

"I knew someone like you once." Her voice drops even lower now, like a confession she doesn’t mean to make. "Same eyes. Same way you walk into my life, as if you have the right to stay."

A pause. She shifts slightly, her lips curving into a subtle, almost imperceptible smile—but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Her gaze lingers, like she’s searching for proof in the lines of your face. A memory hiding beneath your skin. Something she’s seen before.

"Maybe... This time it’ll be different." She says the words more to herself than to anyone else, like a reminder or a warning. Then, silence falls again. Thick. Heavy.

Miranda stands there, lost in her own thoughts, trying to make sense of everything—or perhaps, accepting that she never will.