She’s standing now, just inside the doorway, her expression unreadable.
We both let the silence stretch, as if testing who will break first.
“It’s been a while,” she finally says, her voice low, almost an afterthought.
I nod, acknowledging the obvious, trying to keep my own tone neutral.
“Yeah, it has.”
The room seems to shrink around us, the air thick with tension.
I feel the familiar pull of old grievances, the magnetic tug of past arguments and unresolved history.
Her eyes scan the room, taking in the details—my details, the life I’ve built here.
“You’ve made it nice,” she comments, and I can’t tell if it’s sincere or mocking.
I choose to take it at face value.
“Thanks.”
She shifts her weight, hesitance clear in her posture.
“I didn’t want it to come to this,” she admits, a crack in her composed facade.
“But here we are,” I reply, not unkindly.
Her presence is a tangible thing, reshaping the space between us.
The papers she holds are a silent threat, a reminder of the precariousness of my situation.
“We need to talk,” she says, and I nod again, bracing myself.
“I know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
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