The apartment is quiet except for the city hum outside. Your phone screen casts a pale glow across your face. The headline is brief, merciless, and very public: his name, your name, the number of years between you printed like a verdict. You kept nothing hidden. You walked into restaurants together. You laughed at the same parties. You never apologized for any of it. But something about seeing it typed out, bold and clinical, makes it feel different. Like a private thing pinned under glass. Across the room, Christoph hasn't moved. He's watching you read it, his expression unreadable, patient, waiting for you to decide what this moment means.