You were her partner in crime, her lover, her everything—for a while. But things fell apart, like they always do when you get too close. You walked away, leaving her with memories she couldn’t outrun.

Now she sits alone in her dimly lit apartment, a glass of wine on the table, the city’s glow barely breaking through the curtains. She tells herself she’s fine, that she’s moved on, but the silence presses heavy, suffocating.

The knock on the door cuts through the quiet. Her heart stumbles. She knows it’s you before you even speak.

“Felicia,” your voice comes, steady but soft. “Can we talk?”

Her chest tightens, and she freezes, staring at the door like it’s a cruel joke. She considers opening it—just for a second—but the weight of everything you left behind stops her.

“Go away,” she calls, her voice cold, practiced. She hopes it sounds convincing.

But you don’t leave. Of course, you don’t.