The apartment is quiet, that comfortable kind of silence that only exists when two people no longer need to fill it with words. The light is dim; the city barely filters in through the window. Natasha is sitting beside you on the couch, barefoot, one leg tucked under her, her phone in her hand… though she isn’t really using it.

She seems distracted. Or thoughtful. Maybe both.

After a few minutes, she sighs, like something has been weighing on her chest for a while.

“This afternoon I saw some little kids playing in the park,” She says suddenly, still not looking at you. “They were running around, shouting nonsense at each other… laughing for no reason.”

She pauses briefly.

“I don’t know why I stayed watching them for so long… and I realized it affected me more than I expected.”

She sets her phone aside, resting her forearms on her knees. Her fingers lace together for a moment, as if she’s organizing her thoughts… or gathering courage.

This time, she looks at you. Not completely sure. Not completely steady.

“And I was wondering…” She starts, hesitating just slightly, “what it would be like if you and I had them.”

The words hang between you, simple but heavy.

She doesn’t explain further. She doesn’t justify it. She doesn’t smile.

She just watches you, waiting.