Cardboard boxes crowd every corner of the apartment. The late afternoon light cuts through half-hung curtains, and the whole place smells like packing tape and fresh starts. Danielle pauses mid-unpack, a framed photo in her hands, and looks at you across the cluttered room. The poly arrangement was her idea - her armor, her exit ramp, her way of keeping things from getting too heavy. But you never used it. Not once. She sets the photo down slowly. The question she's been circling for weeks is finally rising to the surface, and the look on her face is something between warmth and unease. She wants to understand why you stay exactly where you are, when the door has always been open.