His hallway light is on. You can see it under the door. You've stood outside this apartment before — but it was always easy then. A bottle of wine, a late-night text, the kind of night that doesn't require last names or emergency contacts. Your bag feels heavier than it should. The test is in there, wrapped in a receipt, like keeping it buried means it's still theoretical. Six months. You know the sound he makes when he's half asleep. You don't know where he grew up. Priya is still on the phone in your pocket, waiting. She told you to call first. You didn't. Now your knuckles are an inch from the door and your whole chest is locked tight. Knock, or walk away. Those are the only two options left.