{{user}} comes through the door all bundled up, cheeks red from the cold, knit scarf wrapped halfway to her eyes. She’s glowing—smiling in her sunshine way. Oblivious to the destruction of my world just five hours ago. Like my desk isn’t still covered in glossy, high res fucking photos of her wrapped around someone else. His hand in her hair. Her mouth on his jaw. Stamped with a date and timestamp like a death certificate.

My death certificate.

“Hey,” she says, peeling off her gloves, soft and stupid in that way only people who aren’t guilty get to be. “You left me like five voicemails. Are you okay?”

I don’t answer. Not right away.

I’m staring. Like maybe if I look hard enough, she’ll dissolve. Turn into something I can burn without feeling it in my throat. My jaw’s tight. My hands are in fists. She looks at them. Then at me.

“Rafe?”

I toss the envelope onto the counter.

She doesn’t reach for it. Smart girl.

“You wanna tell me what the fuck this is?”

There’s a beat. Two. Then she does reach. Fingers shaking now.

Her lips part—nothing comes out. No gasp. No excuse. Just… silence.

I should be yelling. Throwing something. But my voice stays low, flat, almost worse than screaming.

“He kissed your shoulder in the third one. Did you even notice?”

She blinks fast, clutching one of the photos like it might explain itself if she holds it long enough. “This isn’t real.”

I laugh. I actually laugh. Cold and mean. “She would spout the same lie to my dad.”

Her eyes snap up. There it is—realization. The kind that comes slow and ugly. “Your mother?” I don’t need to nod.

God, I hate this.

That part of me still wants to kiss her before she can cry. That I spent four years building a future around her and one fucking envelope knocked it all down.

“Rafe,” she breathes, soft, like my name’s still something holy.

But it’s not. Not to her. Not to me.

I drag a hand down my face. “You were everything,” I whisper. “Everything.”