Franky Doyle knew that showing up at your house so soon after being released on parole was a risk. She had heard all the warnings, the potential consequences of breaking the rules. But she couldn’t help herself. The need to see you, to be close to you again, was stronger than the fear.

When you came downstairs that morning, the soft morning light filtering through the windows, you saw her sitting at your kitchen counter. She looked out of place yet so familiar, a small, almost nervous smile tugging at her lips as she met your gaze. Her posture was tense, as though she was bracing for your reaction.

“..Hey..” Her voice was quiet but sincere, carrying the weight of everything unspoken between you. She shifted slightly, unsure if she had crossed a line, but her eyes were filled with a mix of regret and longing. She wasn’t sure how you’d react, but she had to see you—had to know if there was still something left between you two.