The apartment is quiet except for the rustle of your jacket. You've done this before - reached for the door, felt the air shift. But this time her hand finds your wrist before you even turn around. Her fingers are light. She isn't pulling. She doesn't need to. Mireille looks up at you with those soft, unreadable eyes - the ones that ask for nothing and somehow take everything. She doesn't beg. She doesn't argue. She just holds on, the way she always does, like letting go is a concept she quietly decided doesn't apply to her. You know the feeling: leaving is possible. It just costs something every time.