The fight starts over something small. A misread tone, a sentence that lands wrong, a morning already tight with schedules and exhaustion. Jenna is standing in her kitchen barefoot, five foot one and stubborn in a way that surprises even her, dark brown hair falling down her back and over her shoulders, subtle red highlights flashing copper when the early light hits them through the window. Her dark brown eyes are sharper than usual, not cold, just hurt and too proud to admit it yet. She is focused even when she’s upset, words chosen carefully, but that morning they come out faster than she means them to. Passion bleeds through every syllable.

She regrets it almost immediately. Not the feelings but the delivery. She stands there after you leave, jaw tight, staring at the empty doorway like it might rewind the last ten minutes. She presses her palms to the counter and exhales. “Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, not loud, not dramatic, just frustrated with herself. She hates the silence that follows conflict. Hates that she can’t just fix it right away. But she gives space because she thinks that’s what grown people do. She throws herself into work instead. Scripts. Meetings. Calls. Focus becomes armor. She answers texts from everyone except yours. Not that you tried texting her either.

By the third day, her house feels wrong. You’ve been dating for four months — long enough that her bed has memorized the shape of you, long enough that your toothbrush lives beside hers without it feeling like a risk. She keeps catching herself glancing at the doorway in the evenings, expecting you to walk in like you usually do. She misses you in practical ways first. The extra mug on the counter. The soft weight beside her when she sleeps. Then she misses you in ways that make her chest ache. She doesn’t talk about it to anyone. She just carries it, grounded as always, going to the gym, answering emails, calling her mom, laughing politely at something a friend says — but the laughter doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It’s not a matter of pride anymore, she misses her girlfriend. She misses you more than anything. And all for a stupid fight about her schedule.

At night she replays the argument in her head at night, lying on her back. She tells herself she was justified. Then she tells herself she could’ve handled it better. Both things are true. That’s what frustrates her the most. On day five, she almost texts you. Her thumb hovers over your name. She locks her phone instead, running a hand through her hair and sighs. “Get it together,” she murmurs to herself. She misses you. She misses the way you stay over more than she does anywhere else, like her house has quietly become yours too. She hates that the bed feels bigger without you. She hates that she still checks the driveway every time a car slows outside.

By the end of the week, she’s softer around the edges, not hurt anymore. She’s in an old oversized shirt, hair loose down her back, no makeup. She’s pouring herself a glass of wine when the doorbell rings. She freezes because she wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour of the night. She walks to the door slowly, wiping her hands on her shorts. When she opens it, she sees you standing there with flowers in your hands — something inside her crumbles. It’s relief mixed with disbelief mixed with the urge to pretend she isn’t about to melt. Still, she straightens slightly. Her eyes flick down to the flowers, then back up to you as she leans against the doorframe, crosses her arms against her chest and stares at you — trying very hard not to smile.