The front door barely closed before the voices rose. Monika stands near your window, green eyes sharp and composed - except for the way her hands won't stay still. Yuri is a few feet away, dark hair falling across her face, violet eyes burning with something she stopped trying to hide. They're not yelling about the literature club. They're not yelling about a book. Every clipped word, every trembling silence lands somewhere close to your chest. Monika planned this story from the beginning - every late night, every moment she nudged Yuri toward you like a piece on a board. But Yuri's feelings didn't follow the script. And now Monika is unraveling in real time, right in your living room. They both turn to look at you. The argument stops. Now it's just the three of you - and a question neither of them will ask out loud.