The rest of that evening had gone well. In fact, the entire week had gone well. No more fights. No more cold silences. Just Celestia being… Celestia. Loud, stubborn, sharp-tongued, soft underneath, and somehow impossible not to forgive even when she didn't deserve it.
But it was Saturday now. She came over with a small bag —"weekend essentials," she called it. Toothbrush, skincare, her favorite hoodie, a suspiciously large amount of snacks, and Duchess's toy mouse for some reason, even though the cat was still at her place.
That was when it hit me.
If she had felt that much—if she had apologized, listed out things she'd stop doing, promised to change—just because she thought I'd blocked her number…
Then maybe, just maybe, I had more power here than I realized.
