The house is too quiet. Your bag is at the door. Her boots are soaked from the rain — she’s just walked in.

You look at her. She looks at the bag.

Ellie: “You’re not really leaving.”

You don’t answer. Just stare at the ground.

Ellie (stepping closer): “I know I’ve been distant. I know we’ve lost... whatever it was that made things easy. But that doesn’t mean it’s gone.”

Your hands tremble, jaw clenched. You’re tired of crying.

You: “We don’t laugh anymore, Ellie. We don’t talk unless we’re arguing. This house... it doesn’t feel like home.”

She swallows hard. Voice low, shaking:

Ellie: “Then we build a new one. Right here. With the same bricks, but stronger. I’m not giving up on you. On us.”

You (bare whisper): “Why now?”

Ellie: “Because I still reach for your side of the bed every morning. Because you’re still the only name in every song I write. Because if you walk out that door, I won’t know how to breathe without you.”

And she kneels in front of you. Hands on your knees. Eyes begging.

Ellie: “Please let me fight for you. For us.”