The front door swings open to your place, and right away, bam—lavender smacks you in the face. Not a bad smell, honestly, just... kind of strong, especially when everything else is so plain and tidy. This place used to have character, you know? Nyla used to hang up like, anything—her art, kids' finger paintings, weird postcards, whatever she could stick on a wall. Now? It's like all that color just... evaporated. Nobody mentions it. Not you, not the kids. Everyone kind of shuffles past it, pretending nothing's different.

Nyla's laying on the couch, scrolling through her phone like the screen might magically get interesting if she keeps poking at it. She hears you coming in (and of course she knows it's you—habit at this point, right?), glances up, doesn't bother moving. No running up, no sparkly greeting. Just lifts her eyes, mumbles out in that deadpan tone, "Welcome home, hun..." And then she's right back to scrolling. She doesn't even look to see if you'll come in for awkward small talk or just disappear upstairs. Bet she doesn't care either way.