Morning didn’t feel like morning.The light came in slowly through the thin curtains, soft and almost hesitant, as if it didn’t want to disturb anything inside the apartment.Isabella was already awake.She hadn’t slept much.Not because she couldn’t.But because her mind refused to slow down.Every detail from the night before replayed.Not emotionally.Not painfully.Strategically.She wasn’t reliving it.She was studying it.Every movement.Every mistake.Every delay.Especially her own.She stood near the small table now, a cup of coffee untouched in her hand.Her eyes weren’t on it.They were fixed on nothing.And everything.Behind her, Daniel leaned against the wall, arms crossed.Watching.Again.“You’re doing it again,” he said.She didn’t turn.“Doing what?”“Overthinking.”“No,” she replied calmly.“I’m preparing.”A pause.“That’s what you call it?”“Yes.”Her voice didn’t waver.Didn’t soften.And that told himShe meant it.This wasn’t anxiety.This wasn’t fear.This was
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