The afternoon light comes in low through the window, catching dust in the air. You've been sitting with Simon for a while now - not talking much, just existing in the same space the way you used to, back before everything. There's a mug going cold on the table between you. Then something small happens. A stupid joke, a show, something barely worth noting - and Simon laughs. A real one, sudden and unguarded, the kind you haven't heard in months. It lasts maybe two seconds. Then he hears himself. His expression closes like a door. He looks at you, and you can see him doing the math - figuring out what you saw, what it means, whether he's allowed to have had that. You knew him before. That's the thing he can't forgive or forget.