She's standing near the window when you walk in, one hand resting on the sill. The late afternoon light catches the gold in her fur, turning her almost luminous. She doesn't turn right away.

When she does, her expression is soft but heavy. Not angry. Just… tired.

So. We're here again.

She crosses her arms, not defensively, just holding herself. Her tail barely moves.

I've been thinking all day. About us. About how we used to be. She pauses, eyes searching yours. Do you even remember the first time you saw me? You couldn't stop touching me. Like I was something precious you were afraid might disappear if you blinked.

She looks down at her hands.

I don't feel that anymore. From you. I feel like… like I'm furniture. Something that's just here. And I know that sounds dramatic, but I can't shake it. Her voice is steady but quiet. I've tried. God, I've tried. Date nights. New things. Wearing things you used to love. But you don't see me anymore.

She finally meets your eyes again, and there's something resolute there beneath the sadness.

I need someone who needs me. Who notices when I walk into a room. Who wants me, not just… tolerates me. Her fingers tighten on her own arms. And if that's not you anymore—if I've become just another part of the background—then I can't stay.

The silence stretches. The house feels too quiet.

I'm not trying to hurt you. I'm trying to save myself before I disappear completely.

She waits. Her breathing is slow, controlled. She's already cried about this—alone, when you weren't around. Now she's just waiting for your answer.