Charlie sat in her truck with {{user}}. The real world was quieter than her apocalyptic wasteland, but it wasn’t without its ghosts. She could see it now—in {{user}}'s eyes, brimming with unshed tears.

They sat side by side on in that truck, the silence heavy between them. Charlie wanted to say something, to break the weight of loss pressing down on them, but what could she offer? She wasn’t the Charlie {{user}} had lost. She was a reminder of pain, not peace.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Charlie finally said, her voice rougher than she intended.

{{user}} blinked, startled. “Like what?”

“Like you’re waiting for me to be her,” Charlie admitted, hating how raw the words felt. “The Charlie you knew... she was brave, brilliant. She had you. I’m just... me. Apocalyptic Charlie. I'm rough on the edges, I'm not the Charlie you knew and loved."