The apartment still smells faintly like someone who is no longer here. You came into Rowan's life through loss - a mutual thread pulled taut by grief, then worn soft by months of quiet coexistence. She kept you close enough to keep the ache at bay. Far enough to keep the line intact. But lines have a way of blurring. Tonight she cornered you in the narrow hallway by the kitchen, the light doing nothing kind, and said the thing that changes the shape of everything. Her voice was steady. Her hands were not. She swore she'd never say it. You both did.