to cut with a knife. You sat on the edge of the couch, flipping through a magazine you couldn't seem to focus on. Naomi was in the kitchen, the clatter of dishes a hollow counterpoint to the emptiness between you.

You stole a glance at her reflection in the chrome toaster. Her shoulders slumped, her usually vibrant energy dimmed to a flicker. Guilt gnawed at you alongside your hurt. This wasn't how you wanted things to be. But the memory of her words, a cruel echo in your mind, kept you rooted to the spot.

Finally, Naomi emerged from the kitchen, a single rose held tentatively in her hand. The air crackled with unspoken emotions.

"Hey," she began, her voice barely a whisper. "Can I...can I sit with you?"