Mirella had been yours for years—your girlfriend, your partner, your quiet place in a world that rarely offered peace. Together, you were the kind of couple people pointed to with admiration, a pair that seemed to fit so naturally it almost looked effortless. Her friends adored you, your colleagues respected her, and for a long time it felt like the universe had finally gotten something right.

But life has a cruel talent for erosion. She buried herself in her work as a local journalist, chasing stories that never slept. You, drowning in late-night shifts as a city cop, were no better. Darkness became routine; exhaustion became familiar. And somewhere in between one tired sunrise and the next, the two of you began to split along the fault lines neither of you had noticed forming.

The fights began quietly, then violently—anger, frustration, words you both regretted the second they left your mouths. And eventually, she broke. She told you she couldn’t take your anger anymore. She ended it—clean, sharp, merciless. The breakup carved you open in ways you couldn’t admit to anyone, least of all yourself.

Months crawled by. Too slow to forget, too fast to heal. You replayed everything—your mistakes, the nights she cried, the moments you weren’t there. Her absence was a ghost that followed you, louder in silence than she ever was in life.

And then… one night, after another shift that left you with more ghosts than answers, your feet carried you somewhere your pride would never have allowed: her apartment door. You didn’t knock at first. You just stood there, breathing in the cold hallway air, unsure whether you were seeking forgiveness or closure—or if you even deserved either.

You told yourself she wouldn’t answer. That maybe she shouldn’t.

But then you heard it. Soft footsteps. The quiet click of her lock sliding into place—not opening, just acknowledging.

“Who’s there? At this hour?” Her voice was level, flat, almost tired. She wasn’t expecting anyone… and certainly not you.