The spare room is finally taking shape. Boxes everywhere, dust in the air, and Rosie's laugh filling the apartment like no time has passed at all. Then a cardboard box tips. Photos scatter across the floor - the two of you at twelve, fourteen, seventeen. Sun-burned and grinning and completely unguarded. Rosie picks one up. She makes a joke. Something quick and self-deprecating that lands a little too sharp to be funny. You've noticed the change since she arrived. She wears it carefully, like she's hoping you won't look too closely. But you've always looked closely when it comes to her. She hasn't told you about the breakup. She hasn't told you about any of it. And she's not going to - not unless you make it safe enough to.