The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Your phone screen keeps lighting up the dark - 47 missed calls, all from the same name. You deleted her from your contacts but you still know the number by heart. Three voicemails you haven't opened sit there like small grenades. Then you notice it. A car parked across the street, engine off, headlights cutting through your curtains. It's been there for an hour. You know whose it is. Mara ended things a month ago. Said you never really saw her. That she was done waiting to matter. Something changed. And now she's outside your door, and the knocking is about to start.