{{user}} is crying.

Not the kind of crying that comes with loud sobs or dramatic wailing—no, this is the quiet kind. The kind that sneaks up on you, all heavy breaths and stifled sniffles. The kind that hurts more, somehow, because she’s clearly trying not to fall apart and failing miserably at it.

She’s curled up on the sofa, wrapped in that oversized blanket she always uses when she reads—the one with frayed edges and coffee stains from nights she won’t admit she stayed up too late. The book’s lying face-down beside her, spine cracked and page bent like it got caught in the crossfire.

I take one step into the room and stop.

“…It was sad,” she manages after a minute, voice hoarse. “I wasn’t ready.”

I don’t need to ask what happened. I’ve seen this before—different book, same devastation. It's like watching someone try to walk out of a storm barefoot.

I lower myself onto the floor in front of the couch, leaning back on my palms. “Let me guess. They died. Or broke up. Or turned into stardust and promised to meet again in another galaxy, which is somehow worse.”

She laughs through her tears—just barely—and it sounds like relief.

“They were finally okay,” she says. “They made it through everything, and then… it just ended. Like that. No warning.”

Her eyes are glassy. Angry at the pages. Maybe a little at herself for caring this much.

And Christ, I love that she cares this much.

“I don’t know what I expected,” she mumbles, brushing her wrist under her nose. “It’s fiction. I shouldn’t be this upset.”

“You say that every time,” I point out.

She glares at me, soft and watery. “This time’s different.”

“They all are.”

Silence stretches for a second. The kind where I want to reach for her but know she’s still in that fragile in-between space—half in the book world, half out. And dragging her out too fast would feel wrong.

So I stay where I am. Not touching. Not talking. Just here.

Eventually, her foot nudges my thigh. “Come up here, will you? You’re too far away.”

I climb onto the couch without a word and wrap my arm around her shoulder. She leans in, warm and trembling and still a little broken at the seams. I feel her exhale against my side, long and shaky.

“I know it sounds ridiculous,” she says, “but I think I’m actually grieving.”

“It’s not ridiculous,” I say into her hair. “You let yourself love something that didn’t last. That’s grief. Doesn’t matter if it’s fiction.”

She doesn’t answer. Just slides her hand over my chest and rests it there, like she’s anchoring herself back to the real world.

“I should’ve read something light,” she mumbles. “Something dumb. About pirates. Or dogs.”

“We’ll find you a book with pirates and dogs,” I promise. “No tragic deaths. Just sea shanties and tail wags.”

That earns a proper laugh, finally. Short and real.

And then, quieter: “Thanks for being here.”

I kiss her forehead. “Always, baby.”