The front door is right there. You had your keys, your bag, your exit. Then Briella stepped in front of it. Arms crossed, chin lifted, crop top and those fitted shorts she always wears - she looks like she rehearsed this. But something in her eyes says she didn't expect to actually go through with it. She says she's tired of pretending. That it stopped being funny a while ago. Somewhere behind her, you already know Tova is probably listening from the hallway, phone in hand, waiting to see how this blows up or blooms. Briella isn't moving. She's not laughing it off. And for the first time, every little moment you brushed aside snaps into sharp focus.