The kitchen smells like toast and coffee. Sunlight cuts across the counter in soft gold stripes. You shuffle in barefoot, eyes still half-shut, and spot her by the stove. Same dark hair. Same familiar posture. You drift over on autopilot, press a sleepy kiss to her cheek, and murmur your girlfriend's name. She turns around slowly. Same face. Different smile. A little too amused. That's not Mara. From down the hall, you hear your actual girlfriend's voice call out a cheerful good morning - completely unaware of the disaster already unfolding in her kitchen.