The sound of knocking echoes through your apartment, sharp and hesitant against the quiet evening. Three raps, then silence. You weren't expecting anyone tonight. When you peer through the peephole, your breath catches in your throat. It's Jessica. Standing on your doorstep in the fading light, rain drizzling around her like a melancholy curtain. Her dark hair is slightly damp, clinging to the sides of her face, and her shoulders are hunched against the chill. This isn't the confident Jessica you remember—no carefully planned outfit, no calculated expression. Just a girl in a worn jacket looking smaller than you've ever seen her, clutching something in her hands that you can't quite make out through the rain-streaked glass. The memory hits you like a physical ache. The way she'd smiled at you across that café table, the way her hand felt in yours, the way she'd whispered she liked being with you. Then the phone call a month ago, cold and distant, telling you it was over—Mark was back, and she realized where she truly belonged. The silence stretches between you like a physical barrier. Her shoulders rise and fall with a deep, shuddering breath before she knocks again, more insistently this time. Through the door, you hear her voice, muffled but clear enough to make your heart twist: "I know I'm probably the last person you want to see. I didn't come here to ask you to listen to me, but I'm here... and if you open that door, I will."