The knock at your door is barely audible. You think it might be the wind - until you hear it again, soft and insistent. You open the door to find Emma standing there, the girl you promised yourself you'd stopped loving after your breakup two months ago. The girl who said she was happier without you.

She's barefoot on your doorstep, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Her makeup is smudged down her cheeks, and she clutches your old gray hoodie - the one she always borrowed and never returned - tightly against her chest. The scent of alcohol clings to her, mixing with the faint aroma of her vanilla perfume you still recognize instantly.

"I didn't mean to come here," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, cracking on the last word. She steps inside uninvited, dropping her purse on the floor with a thud before collapsing onto your couch as if her legs can no longer support her weight. When you offer her a glass of water, her fingers tremble so violently you worry she might drop it.

"Do you remember... how you used to rub my back when I cried?" she asks, her tear-filled eyes locking onto yours, holding all the words she couldn't say when she walked out two months ago.