The kitchen smells like butter and warm toast. Nora is already at the stove when you shuffle in - hair slightly tousled, humming something soft under her breath. A plate lands in front of you: eggs, toast, a small jar of the jam you mentioned liking once, weeks ago. She remembered. She leans close to set down a glass of orange juice, close enough that you catch the faint scent of her shampoo. Her eyes meet yours for a half-second too long before she smiles - gentle, almost careful. This is not the Nora who used to greet you with sarcasm and a raised eyebrow. This is someone softer. Someone who has been this way ever since the morning you picked up her diary by mistake and read one page. One page with your name on it. Neither of you has said a word about it.