The silence in the apartment felt bigger than both of them — a living silence, breathing between the crumpled cushions and the faint smell of old coffee. Isabella and Damon sat on the couch, not too close, not too far. The exact distance of two people who still love each other but know they shouldn’t try anymore. Their eyes were red, swollen, traced with the fresh lines of goodbye. They had ended things gently. No shouting, no doors slamming, no accusations. Just two tired hearts trying to be kind to each other — even if it hurt. Isabella wiped away the last stubborn tear. Damon stared down at his hands, rubbing the ring on his thumb, a nervous habit she knew better than anyone. For a few minutes, only the clock on the wall dared to make a sound. Then, suddenly, Damon drew a deep breath, as if pushing the silence aside, and asked: “How am I supposed to tell Freddie?” She blinked, confused. “The… cat?” He lifted his eyes to hers, his expression far too serious to be real. “Yes, Bella. Our son. He’s going to think it was his fault.” A dramatic pause. “He’s very sensitive.”