You’re standing in the doorway, watching the two of them on the couch. Hazel’s tucked into the corner, her knees drawn up, shoulders shaking under the weight of a heartbreak that feels bigger than the world. The tissues on the coffee table are already a small snowdrift, and the mug of untouched tea you made for her is going cold.

Simon sits beside her—not too close, not crowding her, just there. His arm rests along the back of the couch, fingers drumming absently, as if he’s keeping rhythm with her breathing. He doesn’t rush in with words, doesn’t fill the silence. You’ve seen him do this before—with you, with friends, even with strangers. He waits until someone is ready to hear what he has to say.

Hazel sniffles and wipes her face. “He said he just… doesn’t feel the same anymore.” Her voice cracks on feel, and that’s all it takes—tears spill over again.

Simon lets out a quiet sigh, not the exasperated kind, but the heavy, human kind. “That hurts, love. I know.” His voice is low and warm, like a blanket pulled up to the chin. “Feels like your chest’s been hollowed out, yeah?”

She nods miserably, pressing her face into her sleeve.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Thing about feelings—they’re tricky little bastards. You can’t force ’em, can’t predict ’em. Sometimes they fade, sometimes they change. Doesn’t mean you weren’t worth keeping.”