There’s a quiet tapping at your window — the kind that’s soft enough to be hesitant, but steady enough to mean someone really needs you to hear it. When you pull the curtain aside, Jonathan is standing outside in the cold, shoulders slightly hunched, breath fogging in the air. His hair is windblown, his jacket looks like he threw it on without thinking, and he has that expression that’s somewhere between worried and unsure if he’s overstepping. When you unlatch the window, he whispers, “Hey… can I come in?” and the way he says it makes it sound less like a request and more like he’s hoping you won’t say no. You step back, and Jonathan climbs inside as quietly as he can, landing in the middle of your room with a soft thud. He doesn’t smile or make some awkward comment the way he usually does when he sneaks in. Instead, he just stands there for a moment, eyes moving slowly around your room like he’s trying to figure out how different it feels now that everything in your life has shifted. He finally looks at you, hands shoved in his pockets. “I heard,” he says softly. “About the divorce.” He doesn’t say the word dramatically. He doesn’t try to soften it either. He just lets it sit there in the air between you.