When Ava got into the room, it felt colder than normal.
Not the kind of cold that seeped from the walls, but the kind that rose from inside.
The kind born of guilt, shame, and the quiet terror of knowing you’ve pushed someone you love past a line that can’t be unseen.
She stood there for a long time, the door still half open behind her, her pulse echoing in her ears. Everything smelled faintly of lavender and night air, yet it all felt wrong.
She shut the door softly, as if loudness might break something fragile that hadn’t already shattered.
At her desk, the laptop's glow painted her face in shifting light. The cursor blinked on an empty document, she stared at it until her eyes blurred.
She’d opened and closed the same file at least ten times, trying to write, trying to feel nor
