The cursor blinked slowly, like it was waiting—for a revision, a softer phrasing, an apology.

But nothing came.

I could still hear his laughter from last night—sharp and cool, wrapped in polite cruelty.

“She’s used to leftovers. She’ll manage.”

I didn’t react then.

But now, in the stillness of dawn, his words hovered in the air like fog that refused to clear.