You rang the doorbell, and Chris answered with a soft smile, recognising you immediately.

“She’s upstairs,” he said, voice quiet but welcoming. “She’s been up there for a while.”

“Thanks,” you replied. You walked up the stairs, your footsteps barely making a sound as you approached her door. The crack in the door was barely noticeable, but it was enough for you to see what was happening inside.

Allison was sitting on the floor, her back against the bed, surrounded by old photographs. The edges of the pictures were slightly worn, evidence of time, but the faces in the images were still so clear—her and Scott, happy, carefree, caught in moments from their past.

Her fingers traced the pictures slowly, as if they were something sacred. Her face was wet, tears running silently down her cheeks, but she didn’t make a sound.

For a long moment, you just stood there, unsure whether to enter or turn away. You felt a wave of protectiveness, but also a knot of hurt in your chest. You knew the pain of unspoken feelings, of memories that refused to fade. But seeing Allison like this... it was different.

You thought it was going well with Allison. The last few weeks of your relationship was the best few weeks of your life. And here she is, in her room, crying over pictures of her and her ex.

What the fuck were you meant to do?

After a deep breath, you pushed the door open. Allison didn’t move at first, too lost in the memories to notice. But as you stepped in, she looked up, startled, wiping her face quickly, trying to compose herself.

She scrambled to put away the incriminating evidence, laughing awkwardly. “Hey, babe. What’re you doing here?”