I woke up early; the air felt softer somehow. lighter.
I moved around the kitchen quietly pouring pancake batter into the pan, the sizzle comforting in a way I hadn't expected. I didn't know if she did eat; I didn't know if it would fix anything. But it felt right. Maybe pancakes were the only way I knew how to say I'm still here, I care even if I messed up everything.
I hummed to myself while I poured milk into a glass, trying to find something that felt normal in the ritual of it.
Then I turned and saw her.
She stood on the doorway, watching me her face was unreadable but not cold, just a tired look like she'd lived a hundred years in the past twenty-four hours.
"I made these for you." I said, gently holding her gaze, no expectations no pressure, just something real.
For a moment she didn't say anything; she just stood there letting the warm scent of pancakes and silence stretch between us.
