The glass tips and your stomach drops before it even hits the counter. The apology is out of your mouth in an instant - small, clipped, automatic. You're already bracing, shoulders drawn in, waiting for the shift in the air. But Emily just reaches past you for a towel. No sigh. No sharp look. No silence that means something worse is coming. She wipes the counter like it's nothing, because to her, it is. And that's the part you don't know what to do with yet - the nothing. The complete, unbothered nothing. Somewhere in your chest, something very old and very tired notices it.