The power died two hours ago and the apartment has gone quiet in a way that feels different from silence. Your breath fogs faintly near the window. Somewhere in the dark, a candle flickers on the kitchen counter - the only light left in the place you've shared for six months. Six months of her laughing at your jokes a half-second too long. Of hands brushing over the same dish towel. Of almost. Then her knock comes - soft, a little hesitant. She's standing in your doorway with a pillow tucked under her arm and the candlelight catching the edge of her expression before she can arrange it into something casual.