Her building is taller than it needs to be.
Glass front.
Polished lobby.
Muted art on the walls.
He signs in out of habit even though the receptionist already recognizes him.
The elevator hums softly as it rises.
He doesn't check his reflection.
When the doors open, the hallway is carpeted and silent.
Her door is already unlocked.
She opens it before he knocks.
"Hi."
"Hi."
She steps aside to let him in.
The apartment is immaculate.
Neutral tones.
Clean lines.
Expensive in a way that doesn't draw attention to itself.
Everything is placed precisely.
Nothing is personal.
No photographs.
No mismatched textures.
No signs of impulse.
He's been here before, but he's never really looked.
They sit on the couch.
Her posture is straight.
Hands clasped over her knees.
She doesn't speak at first.
He doesn't rush it.
"Thank you for coming," she says finally.
"Of course."
Silence settles again.
She looks around the room, not at him.
"I've been thinking."
He nods once.
She inhales slowly.
"This doesn't feel like home."
The words land without tremor.
She gestures lightly around them.
"I didn't choose any of this."
The coffee table.
The sofa.
The abstract painting across from them.
"My mother did."
Her voice isn't resentful.
It's observational.
"I told myself it didn't matter."
She stands.
Walks a few steps toward the window.
"The layout. The colors. The furniture."
She turns slightly.
"Even this."
She gestures to her clothes.
Structured.
Tailored.
Exact.
"I didn't choose that either."
He watches her carefully.
Not for instability.
For clarity.
She sits again.
"I started wondering," she says, quieter now, "if there's a version of me that never got to… come out."
He doesn't interrupt.
"A little girl who didn't get to decide anything."
Her fingers tighten slightly against each other.
"What would she have liked?"
The question doesn't sound dramatic.
It sounds unfamiliar.
He lets it exist in the room.
She looks at him then.
Not asking for answers.
Just acknowledging he already knows too much.
"I don't know what I want," she says.
It's the simplest version of everything she's been circling.
He considers his response.
The problem for him was never not knowing.
He knew what he liked.
Music too loud.
Staying out too late.
Certain chords.
Certain quiet.
He just stopped asserting any of it.
She was shaped.
He made himself smaller.
Different origins.
Same result.
Lack of authorship.
He doesn't try to solve it.
He doesn't tell her she'll figure it out.
He doesn't offer structure.
"I think," he says slowly, "that choosing something small counts."
She watches him.
"Small?" she repeats.
"Tea," he says. "Or no tea."
The faintest shift in her expression.
Not a smile.
Not yet.
"Music," he adds. "Or silence."
The room is still.
Neither of them are fixing anything.
But something aligns quietly between them.
She wants to discover preference.
He needs to admit desire.
Both require choosing.
She exhales.
"That sounds simple."
"It isn't," he says.
For the first time since he walked in, the apartment feels less staged.
Still unfamiliar.
Still not hers.
But no longer entirely rigid.
They sit without speaking.
Not because they don't know what to say.
But because neither of them is pretending anymore.