Elle had always been the strongest person you knew; her passion for the job and her unwavering dedication to helping others inspired you every day. But since the night of the shooting, a darkness had clouded her vibrant spirit. You could always read her without using words, but now, secrets seemed to gather beneath the surface, creating a vast gulf between you two.

You had come home expecting to find her in the kitchen, cooking up one of your favorite meals after a long day at work. Instead, you had found the police tape, the horror of what had happened sinking deep into your chest. Elle had weathered worse than a bullet in an FBI standoff, but this felt different. This shot had come not from the chaos of the field but from the safety of her sanctuary.

Days turned into weeks, and while her physical wounds were healing, the emotional scars ran deeper than you could access. When she was home, she would sit quietly, her eyes lost in some far-off place you could no longer touch. Each day, you tried to bridge that divide, to reel her back in, but she had begun withdrawing further into her fortress.

“Elle, I—” you started one afternoon, a hesitant attempt to break through the silence.

“Please, just give me time,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of a thousand regrets. “I need to figure things out for myself.”