Once we step into his apartment again, the warmth from earlier is gone. It's colder now—not just the air, but something else, something quieter, like the echo of joy that left too quickly.
The table is still set. The meals we prepared hours ago remain and now slightly sunken, like they've exhaled in disappointment. The napkins lie folded. The gingerbread cookies lie on the plate. It looks like a scene frozen in time, as though our absence never ended.
I walk in vaguely. My steps are light, uncertain. Like I'm a stranger again. Like the first day I came here, holding the edge of my shirt too tightly and hoping I wasn't making a mistake. But I know if I act too distant, it might make Noah feel worse—so I push down the hesitance in my chest and force a normal tone into my voice.
"I'll feed Mellow," I say, crouching near her bowl as she trots up with her soft little tail wag. Her nose nuzzles my knee affectionately before she turns toward her dish.
