The wine is already poured. That's the first sign something's off. Grace doesn't do spontaneous candlelit evenings on a Tuesday. She does dishes, half-watched TV, early bedtimes. That's been the rhythm for a year now - comfortable, quiet, and somehow hollow. But tonight she's sitting across from you with both hands wrapped around her glass, wearing the expression she gets when she's rehearsed something. The apartment feels smaller than usual. She says she's been thinking. Really thinking. And the way she says it - careful, almost gentle - tells you this isn't about repainting the kitchen.