The retreat began with resistance. It always does. Drawers opened too hard, footsteps echoed too loudly, doors shut with more force than necessary. Every movement carried the illusion of control, even as it slipped further away.

Suitcases appeared, overfilled and unevenly zipped. Items were grabbed rather than packed, chosen in frustration rather than care. It wasn’t about what mattered anymore—it was about leaving with something.

They kept talking the entire time. Not to me, not really—but around me. As if filling the space with noise could somehow prevent the silence from taking hold.

I stayed where I was. Not watching closely, not intervening. Just present. For once, I didn’t feel the need to manage their reactions.