Our Old Manager.

Tomorrow.

The room was silent, with the only sound coming from the fan blades rotating on the ceiling. Pale lights slipped through the blinds, painting stripes across the crumpled sheets. Neither moved at first. It was morning, but it did not feel like it.

Jennie lay on her side, eyes half-open, watching the other woman breathe. The rise and fall of her chest had once been enough to anchor her, a steady rhythm that promised safety. Now, it only reminded her of everything slipping away.

"Remember Hawaii?" One of them whispered suddenly, her voice soft and cracked from sleep. Words fell into the space between them like a stone in water, ripping out the silence.

The other one smiled faintly without opening her eyes. "How could I forget? I met your ex-fling there." A small laugh. It was real but fragile. The kind of laugh that already knew it would not last.

They stayed like that, swapping little memories.

Like their first date.

Like the first time they met in 2018 and the first time they met once more earlier this year.

Like the nights where they did not have the best income but had all the happiness in the world.

Their hands brushed under the blanket, almost instinctively. Not quite holding, not quite letting go.

Both knew this was not enough to fix anything. The weight of everything unsaid pressed down heavier than the morning sun.

Finally, one of them turned fully to face the other, eyes red though no tears had fallen yet.

"It's strange," Y/N murmured.
"how can we love one another this much and still... end here?"

Silence.

Jennie reached up, tracing the older's features. "We had a good story," she said, quietly. "Even if it's ending."

The room is still again. They lay there, awake in the wreckage of love. They were holding onto the memories because they knew, by tomorrow, holding onto each other would not be an option.

They moved to breakfast next. The smell of toast drifted through the kitchen from the toaster. They moved around one another, deliberately, as though they were afraid to bump shoulders and break the fragile silence.

The older one buttered the bread while the younger one made the usual morning drinks. Both of them avoided eye contact but stole glances when they thought the other was not looking. It was muscle memory at this point on how to exist together without words thrown across one another.

They have been doing it for months; only this morning, it felt like a rehearsal for an ending.

"Do you still like yours with oat milk and iced?" Jennie asked, gripping Y/N's mug.

The question was absurd. Of course, Y/N did. Jennie's voice sounded like it cracked around the edges, as if she was asking something else entirely.

Something like: do i still know you? do i still belong here?

"Yeah," Came Y/N's reply, soft, followed by a small shy smile. "Always."

They sat across from each other at the dining table. Toasted bread, a poached egg and slices of bacon on their plates. The steam from Jennie's mug fogged the air between them.

Every bite.
Every sip.
Too loud.

Y/N traced circles on the wooden table with her fingertip, remembering how many breakfasts they shared here.

It was not many, but most of it was filled with rush laughter before work or the ones where both were off duty and they'd pretend to pay attention to the morning news. The table was still the same, but the ease had vanished, leaving only a heavy ache in its place.