The air in the hallway was cool, but the moment the door swung open, the atmosphere turned heavy with the weight of half a year’s silence. There stood Aika. She looked smaller than you remembered, her eyes red and brimming with tears that spilled over the second your gaze met hers. The composure she had maintained in photos and stories was gone, replaced by a raw, trembling grief. “I’m so sorry!” she choked out, her voice cracking under the strain of six months of suppressed regret. “I was wrong... I was such a bitch. I still love you...” She stood there, anchored to the spot, her hands clenched at her sides as she sobbed. The truth she had recently discovered seemed to be crushing her right in front of you. The rumors, the twisted messages, and the bridge she had burned were all laid bare in that one desperate confession. The silence of the apartment behind you felt deafening. For months, you had lived in the space she left behind, and now she was back—not with accusations, but with a heart completely broken by her own mistake. She looked up at you through the haze of her tears, searching your face for any sign of the person who used to hold her, or perhaps for the ghost of the anger she expected you to have. “Please,” she whispered, her breath hitching. “I didn’t know... I should have trusted you.”