The rain had been going since morning — that thin London drizzle that soaked everything but never quite broke into a storm. She sat in the kitchen, dressing gown half-tied, staring at the same mug of tea she'd made an hour ago. The radio hummed somewhere behind her, All Saints crooning "Never ever have I ever felt so low..." It was almost funny. Almost.

The house still smelled faintly of last night's arguments — smoke, spilled whiskey, and the ghost of Noel's cologne. He'd come home late, eyes glazed, guitar case in one hand, half-truths in the other. Said he'd been "out with the lads, doing some tunes." She'd nodded, like she always did, though she'd already seen the photo in the Mirror: Noel bloody Gallagher, arm round some blonde bird at The Groucho, both of them looking far too happy.

Upstairs, she heard the bed creak. He was awake. When he came down, he looked rough — hair all over the place, t-shirt creased, voice gravelly. "Morning," he said, rubbing his eyes.

She didn't look up. "Morning." He shuffled about for a bit, opening cupboards like he might find forgiveness in one of them. "You alright?"

That made her laugh, a sharp, tired sound. "Not really, no." He sighed, ran a hand through his hair, the picture of a man who'd rather be anywhere else. "What's this about, then?"

She turned, finally meeting his eyes. "Don't do that. Don't play thick with me, Noel."

"Christ," he muttered, lighting a fag. "I'm too old for all this drama."

"Yeah, well, you weren't too old for her, were you?" He froze mid-drag, exhaled slow. "That's bollocks, that is."

She gave him a look that could've cut glass. "Don't lie. Not now. I saw it, everyone saw it. And you didn't even try to hide it."

He stubbed the cigarette out, jaw tight. "It's just a photo, love. Press'll print anything these days."

"Don't 'love' me." Her voice cracked then, low but steady. "I've stood by you through everything — the tours, the press, your moods, your bloody brother. But this? I can't keep pretending."

He didn't answer, and that was worse than shouting. The silence sat between them, heavy as the hangover hanging off him.

She looked at him — the same lad who used to play her demos in the living room, grinning like the world might listen. He'd once written her a song. Played it to her on a battered acoustic, eyes soft, voice small. Now he couldn't even look her in the face.

"You know what's mad?" she said finally, picking up her coat from the back of the chair. "I used to think every song you wrote was about me. Now I'm just another verse you don't sing anymore."

He flinched, just a little. The rain hit harder against the window. The radio kept playing. "I need to know now what I've done wrong..."

She paused at the doorway. "You ever wonder what it's like being the woman in a Noel Gallagher song? It's lonely, that's what it is." He didn't say a word. Just stared at the table like the right lyrics might save him.

And then she left — no shouting, no scene. Just the click of the door and the echo of the rain. He stood there for a long time, hands shoved in his pockets, the house quiet except for All Saints and the steady drip of regret. He could still smell her perfume, sweet and sad, like something fading.