The apartment is quiet — afternoon light cutting pale stripes across the kitchen table. Her notebook sits open. You weren't looking for anything. You just reached past it for your coffee. But your name stops you cold. Once, twice, filling the margins, threaded through sentences that curl and ache. Dates. Small things you said months ago. A list titled *reasons* — and it goes on for pages. You don't hear the door until it's already open. Wren stands in the hallway, grocery bag in hand, eyes dropping straight to the notebook in your hands. The color drains from her face. She doesn't move. Neither do you. She has been quietly holding a love this size for longer than you knew — and now there is nowhere left to hide it.