You close the laptop, but not cleanly. The motion is slower than it should be, your hand lingering on the lid before it shuts. The room feels different now, quieter in a way that presses in instead of settling around you. You sit there doing nothing but thinking everything. You replay it: the messages, the follow-up, the exact moment you decided to push, each step feels clearer now, sharper in hindsight, every line just slightly too far, every word just slightly too deliberate. You saw the line and crossed it anyway. Sleep comes in fragments. You fight it, hoping somehow it goes away. You cannot tell when but somewhere between waiting for a miracle and waiting for another message from Isabella that you know for a certainty will not come, you fall asleep. [[Next Day]]