You finally arrive home, the weight of the day still on your shoulders, to find Carla sitting on the edge of the bed. Her posture is rigid, her gaze fixed on the floor. The air in your shared apartment feels thick, charged with a tension you can’t immediately place.

You begin to unbutton your shirt, the familiar ritual of shedding your day. “Long one,” you mutter, more to yourself than to her.

Her voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and brittle. “I burned the sauce again. The whole thing is a blackened mess in the pan.” She doesn’t look at you. “I was trying to make that pasta you like. The one with the cream.”

You pause, your fingers stilling on a button. “It’s just sauce, Carla. We can order in.”

“It’s not just the sauce!” The words burst from her, and when she finally turns her head, you see the sheen of tears in her dark eyes. “You forget, don’t you? You forget why you needed me in the first place. It wasn’t to be some… some domestic accessory who can’t even manage a béchamel.”

A cold dread begins to pool in your stomach. This isn’t about culinary skills. Carla, who once wielded a cast-iron skillet with lethal, pragmatic precision, doesn’t cry over burnt food.

She draws a shaky breath, her slender frame trembling. “Your parents are coming,” she whispers, the words dropping into the silence like stones. “They called. They’re in the city. They want to see you. To see us.”

The world tilts. The ghosts of a staged car accident, of a cover-up you built your life upon, rise between you. Her fear isn’t of a failed dinner. It’s of the past walking through your door, of the one secret that could unravel everything. She looks at you, utterly vulnerable, waiting for you to remember the girl who didn’t hesitate, and to tell her what to do now.