I got back before she did.
The apartment was quiet when I entered, the kind of quiet that only exists when no one knows how a day has gone yet. I set my phone on the table and waited.
Time passed.
When the door finally opened, it was slow. Careful.
Ha-rin stepped inside, slipped off her shoes, and stood there for a moment longer than necessary, as if the room needed to adjust to her being back.
"…You're back," I said.
"Yes."
Her voice sounded normal.
That worried me more than if it hadn't.
She placed her bag down neatly, aligning it with the edge of the table. The movement was precise—controlled, like she was still sitting across from someone who might be watching.
"…How was it," I asked.
She didn't answer right away.
She walked to the sofa and sat, hands resting on her knees, posture straight.
"…They smiled a lot," she said finally.
"That is rarely a good sign," I replied.
"…They asked how I was feeling," she continued. "…If I'd been resting properly."
"That is standard."
"…Then they asked about timelines."
I waited.
"…Not directly," she added. "They never ask directly."
"Of course not."
She leaned back slowly, staring at the ceiling.
"…They said fans are worried."
"That is framing."
"…They said opportunities don't wait forever."
"That is pressure."
"…They said I should think carefully about my future."
"That is a threat," she said quietly.
"Yes," I agreed.
She let out a short laugh.
There was no humor in it.
"…They didn't accuse me of anything," she said. "That's what makes it worse."
I nodded.
"…They want reassurance," she went on. "Something they can hold onto."
"And you did not give it," I said.
She turned her head toward me.
"…No."
Her hand moved without thought, settling against her stomach.
She noticed halfway through.
She didn't stop.
"…I told them I'm not ready to make decisions yet," she said softly. "…That I need time."
"That was correct."
"…They didn't like it."
"They do not have to," I replied.
She exhaled slowly, shoulders lowering for the first time since she came in.
"…I thought I'd feel worse," she admitted. "…But I don't."
"That is clarity," I said.
"…It still scares me."
"That is also acceptable."
She sat quietly for a moment, breathing evening out.
Then—
"…They asked if I was seeing someone."
I looked up.
"…What did you say," I asked.
"…That my private life hasn't changed."
"That is accurate."
She nodded.
"…They didn't believe me."
"That is irrelevant."
She looked at me then.
Really looked.
"…You didn't come in," she said.
"No."
"…But you were nearby."
"Yes."
Her lips pressed together.
"…I knew," she said. "…That's why I didn't panic."
I said nothing.
She shifted slightly on the sofa, her hand still resting where it had settled earlier.
"…I didn't say it out loud," she added. "…But I knew I wasn't alone."
That mattered.
She leaned back, eyes closing briefly.
"…I think this is just the beginning," she said.
"Yes."
"…They'll push harder."
"Yes."
"…And I don't know how long I can keep this up."
"That will depend," I replied, "on what you choose to protect first."
She opened her eyes.
Her hand pressed a little more firmly.
"…I already know the answer," she said.
Silence followed.
Not heavy.
Resolved.
"…I'm tired," she said.
"Yes."
"…But I don't regret today."
"That is important."
She stood slowly and headed toward her room, then paused at the door.
"…Hey," she said, not turning around.
"Yes?"
"…Thank you."
"For what."
"…For letting me choose."
"That was always yours," I replied.
She nodded once and went inside.
The door closed softly.
The apartment settled again.
Outside, nothing had changed.
Inside, something had.