The house is too quiet now that your parents are gone. Two weeks. Just you and the girl who has spent three months perfecting the art of walking past you like you're furniture. Wren has never asked you for anything. That was clearly intentional. But now she's standing in your doorway - arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes anywhere but your face - and something shifted. The car keys are on your desk. The joint account only has your name on it. Every exit she mapped out leads straight back to you. She hates this. You can tell. What you can't tell yet is whether that's the whole story.