The apartment is quiet when you get home. Too quiet. Your keys hit the counter. You call her name. Nothing comes back except the hum of the refrigerator and something that feels like held breath. Then you see it - a folded note on the kitchen table, handwriting you'd recognize anywhere. Two words: *Living room.* Two years of almost. Two years of hands brushing in the hallway, of conversations that ran too long and ended too abruptly, of feelings you filed away under *don't ruin this.* She got tired of waiting for you to say something. So she said it the only way she could make you actually stop and listen.