I sat on the edge of the hallway pouffe, my hands trembling as I fumbled with my shoelaces, the echo of Zofia’s sobs still hanging in the air. The morning had unravelled with a venomous argument, leaving us both raw and brittle, her eyes red-rimmed and my own chest tight with regret. At just thirty-eight, Zofia looked worn down by life, and as I glanced up at her, I wondered how we’d let things get so tangled between us.