“You shouldn’t have come here.”

But she doesn’t mean it.

Robin stands frozen in the kitchen, one hand curled tightly around a chipped mug, the other shaking slightly as you hover by the doorway like a ghost she never stopped seeing. There’s a scar above your right eyebrow now. New. Or at least new to her. Everything else looks achingly familiar—the way you cross your arms when you’re unsure, the way your lips twitch like you’re holding something in. Maybe an apology. Maybe a lie.

She wonders if she should ask.

The silence stretches between you like it always used to before things went too far—before you kissed her in the back of that stupid video store, before she told you she loved you, and before you left.

You never said goodbye. Just disappeared. Poof. And the worst part? She understood why.

Your family’s church had a sign that used to read “PRAY THE GAY AWAY” in all caps, right under the Sunday service times. Robin used to joke about it to cope, but you never laughed. Just bit your cheek, eyes flinching like it physically hurt.

She sets the mug down too hard and it clinks against the counter. You flinch.

“You look like shit,” she mutters, just to fill the space. “Guess I’m not the only one haunted lately.”

Your eyes—soft, hesitant—makes her chest twist in that familiar, painful way.

“I—I didn’t know where else to go,” you whisper.

That’s the thing about you. Always running from everything but her.

Robin lets out a breath and walks past you, brushing your arm. The contact burns.

“Bed is still yours,” she says. Then, quieter: “Never stopped being yours.”

She won’t say she still loves you. She won’t. But as she catches your reflection in the hallway mirror—tired, guilty, scared—she already knows it’s still there, buried under all the hurt.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the problem.