It happened the next morning.
Not immediately.Not dramatically.
Just quietly.
Ha-rin stood at the sink, staring at the water as it ran, hands braced against the counter. She hadn't turned it off yet.
"…You're going to waste it," she said to herself.
She still didn't move.
Her reflection looked fine. Tired, maybe. But fine. The kind of fine people used when they didn't want questions.
She turned the tap off and rested her forehead against the cabinet.
"…Get it together."
The words didn't help.
Breakfast sat untouched on the table. She poked at it once, then pushed the plate away.
"…I'm not hungry."
"You did not eat yesterday either," I replied.
"…I had coffee."
"That does not qualify."
She gave me a look that was meant to be sharp.
It missed.
She leaned back in the chair instead, shoulders slumping in a way I hadn't seen before.
"…They called again," she said quietly.
"When," I asked.
"…An hour ago."
"And you did not answer."
"…No."
"That is acceptable."
"…They didn't even say anything new," she continued. "…Just asked if I'd 'thought more clearly overnight.'"
"That implies impatience," I said.
"…It implies they think I'll change my mind if they wait long enough."
"Yes."
She rubbed her temples.
"…I hate that they know me this well."
"They know the version of you that listens," I replied.
"…And I don't want to be that version anymore."
She said it without heat.
Without anger.
Just fact.
That was what worried me.
She stood and walked to the window, arms wrapping loosely around herself. The city outside moved the way it always did—busy, indifferent.
"…I used to like this," she said. "The pressure. The pace. Knowing exactly what people expected."
She paused.
"…Now it just feels loud."
She pressed her palm to the glass.
"…What if I disappoint everyone," she asked. "…Not the fans. Them."
She didn't need to clarify.
"I do not think disappointment is the right word," I replied.
"…Then what is it."
"Loss of control," I said. "They are afraid of it."
She laughed softly.
"…Funny," she murmured. "So am I."
Her hand drifted to her stomach, slower this time. Not instinctive. Intentional.
She pressed there gently, as if grounding herself.
"…I didn't plan this," she said. "…Any of it."
"No," I replied.
"…But I also don't want to undo it."
I said nothing.
She looked down.
"…Is it selfish," she asked. "…To want both."
"No," I replied. "It is human."
"…They won't see it that way."
"They do not need to," I said. "You do."
She turned toward me then.
Her eyes were steady.
"…I'm scared," she admitted. "…Not of losing them."
I waited.
"…I'm scared of losing myself trying to keep everyone happy."
That was it.
The crack.
Not wide enough to break her.
Just deep enough to change shape.
"…Then don't," I said.
"…It's not that simple."
"No," I agreed. "But it is that necessary."
She nodded slowly.
Her hand remained where it was.
Protective.
Certain.
"…I won't decide today," she said. "…Or tomorrow."
"That is fine."
"…But when I do," she added, "…I won't apologize."
"That would be appropriate," I replied.
She exhaled.
Not relief.
Resolution.
The phone buzzed on the table again.
She glanced at it.
Didn't pick it up.
"…They can wait," she said.
"Yes," I replied.
"They always do.