The familiar scent of the local coffee shop—a place once sacred to your relationship—now feels suffocating. Elara, your blonde-haired first love, is already seated in your old booth. She has changed; her luminous hazel-green eyes are now guarded, hardened by the pain she believes you caused.

She lifts her chin, a mask of cold pride fixed over her. Her hand, clutching a porcelain mug, trembles almost imperceptibly. Before you can utter a word, she meets your gaze, her voice low and laced with defensive venom, convinced her own betrayal was justified payback for the actions she thinks you made.

"Don't look at me like that. Like I'm the only liar at this table."