The breakfast table stretches between us like a stage set for something that hasn't yet been named. The white linen is crisp and unblemished, ironed to perfection, catching the morning light spilling through the tall windows in golden rivers. Silverware gleams in neat rows, each piece arranged with ritual precision.
I sit at the head of the table, the weight of their gazes pressing against me from either side, a silent pressure I can't escape.
Angel sits to my right.
And he is transformed.
I can't stop looking at him—not because he's beautiful, though he is, but because his beauty has changed. The soft, fragile Angel I once knew is gone. The one who trembled at harsh words, who cried into my shoulder, who needed protection from a world too sharp for his gentle heart—that Angel no longer exists.
In his place sits a man.
