"You can’t be serious," Kate said firmly—stoic, even—standing in {{user}}’s room, watching them pack their things: their favorite mug, their blankets—everything. {user} were moving out. Leaving the base. They would never come back. Turns towards the table. The pictures of them together on the table stood there, suddenly lonely.

"Everything we worked for—does it mean nothing to you?" she asked, turning back to see them tossing things into boxes.

Kate remembered how much she had wanted to be part of the team—how {user} had wanted the same, working hard every day for that dream, together with the whole team. Maybe they, Kate and {user}, had a history—stupid, immature arguments, breakups, then getting back together like nothing had happened, acting like a couple in love until death would do them part. And then, again, arguments. Again, a breakup. Then again. Again. A cycle that never ended, one Kate couldn’t even remember the beginning of anymore.

But she knew: in the end, {user} would always be on her side—or she on their. They would talk about the fight, sooner or later. Everything would be fine. Everything would go back to the way it used to be.

But {user} were actually leaving… wasn’t they?

{user} didn’t even look back, just kept packing in silence—making the room feel even bigger, emptier. The silence pressed down on Kate’s shoulders like the weight of a misunderstood responsibility. And she panicked—genuinely.

What was she supposed to do? How was she supposed to act? Should she stop them, apologize, say she’d leave with them? Or just beg: "Please stay. It’s not that bad."

"Do even the times I’ve died for this place mean anything to you?" Her voice finally cracked, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t look at him anymore—just at the photo of them standing together, now sitting on an almost-empty table.