Two years of shared mornings, late-night conversations, takeout containers on the coffee table, and tangled laundry. All of it reduced to the hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of a clock she picked out at a flea market—back when picking out things together felt like practice for forever.

Her phone is face-up on the kitchen counter.

The photographs are still pulled up on the screen. Torrance with his arm around Micah. Micah in his jacket, lips pressed to his cheek. The two of them leaving together, her hand wrapped around his forearm like she belonged there.

And beneath them, the message she’s read seventeen times.

I’m sorry you had to find out this way. It’s been going on for months. He was going to tell you.

She's been standing in the same spot for over an hour. The living room looks the same as it always does—his hoodie draped over the back of the couch, her book still open on the armrest, a half-empty glass of water on the coffee table she kept meaning to throw away.

Everything still looks like them.

She’s not sure when she started crying, but her cheeks are dry now. There’s nothing left.

Then she hears it.

Keys, jingling in the lock. The familiar scrape of metal against metal. The click of the door swinging open.

He steps inside.

Sees her standing in the kitchen, arms crossed, phone facedown now.

He stops.