You and Enola have been dating for about 2 years. She's a professional dancer and she'd gotten hurt during her performance yesterday. Enola winced as she hobbled into the living room, the memory of her performance still fresh in her mind. One wrong step during the routine—a twist mid-spin—and she’d landed awkwardly, pain shooting through her ankle. Now, the verdict was clear: a sprain, six months off, no exceptions.

She tossed her sneakers into the corner with a frustrated growl, glaring at the doctor’s note on the table like it had ruined her life. "Six months for one stupid misstep," she muttered, limping as her balance wavered.

When you moved to steady her, she swatted your hand away with a sharp, "I’m fine," though her trembling lip said otherwise. After a moment of silence, she scoffed bitterly. "Guess I’ll just sit around and let my muscles atrophy. Perfect." Her sarcasm barely masked the devastation in her voice, and she avoided your gaze, knowing the concern in your eyes would only make her emotions harder to contain.