Sienna’s POV


    I woke up with a feeling that was hard to describe. My eyes slowly opened, staring at the ceiling of the room that had once witnessed so much pain as well as memories. The air inside felt different, colder, more distant. Even though the nket wrapped tightly around me, my heart felt empty, as if I were still caught between a dream and reality.


    This room used to be the ce where I often cried alone, holding back a heartache that never found words. Now, after so long, I had returned to sleep within its walls. It felt strange. I was no longer the same


    Sienna, but the shadows of the past seemed to cling to every corner.


    I drew in a long breath, trying to brush away the weight pressing on my chest. Slowly, I rose from the bed, my feet meeting the cold floor.


    There was a faint aroma of wood and fabric lingering in the air. The room hadn’t changed much, the walls still wore the soft color I had once chosen myself, the wooden wardrobe still stood firm in the corner, and the sheer curtains swayed gently whenever the wind passed. Only I had changed, the woman standing here was no longer the same.


    My eyes wandered around, sweeping over every detail that was so familiar yet felt foreign. My chest tightened when they fell upon the small table by the bed. Back then, I would leave little notes there notes filled with prayers, hopes, and pain I could never say aloud. Now, the table was empty, as if it too had kept the secrets I had left behind years ago.


    I sat on the edge of the bed, letting my fingers trace the cool fabric of the sheets. Old memories returned nights when I sobbed quietly, afraid my voice would be heard. Nights when I had wished for a hand to hold mine, to steady me, but all I found was silence. That feeling still lingered, still left its mark, even as I


    told myself I was stronger now.


    “Why did Ie back here?” I whispered faintly, almost as if asking myself. No answer came, except for the trembling of my own heart. Perhaps because I had never truly dared to close this door.


    I rose slowly, stepping toward therge mirror fixed to the wardrobe. My reflection stared back at me, a face older, eyes carrying too many stories, lips pressed tight to hold back words. I studied myself for a long time, searching for the difference between the Sienna of then and now. But the longer I looked, the more it felt like nothing had changed. The wounds were still there, only hidden better.


    Closing my eyes, I pressed a hand to my chest. “I’m not that woman anymore. I’m not her,” I whispered to my reflection. But the words sounded fragile, as though I was trying to convince myself of something I


    didn’t fully believe.


    Cold air slipped through the gap in the window, making me shiver. I returned to the bed, pulling the nket around me as I sat hugging my knees. This room felt like it wanted to swallow me whole with all the memories and scars it held. Yet at the same time, I knew this was exactly where I needed to be, to


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    face it all.


    I gazed at the ceiling again. Somehow, a small part of me hoped that by returning to this room, I might finally find peace with the past. Though heavy, maybe this was the beginning of something different.


    I stepped out of the room. The hallway of this house felt the same, yet different, as if it had aged without <ol><li>me. </li></ol>


    When I reached the dining room, I found Liam already seated there. He was dressed simply, holding a cup


    of coffee in his left hand, his eyes weary yet alert. The moment he noticed me, he quickly set the cup


    down.


    “Sienna,” his voice carried a trace of panic, almost rushed. “Are you okay? Do you need something? Do


    you want breakfast now?”


    I froze for a moment at his overreaction. A strange warmth mixed with bitterness stirred in me as I


    realized how closely he still watched over me. Slowly, I offered a small smile, trying to calm him.


    “I’m fine,” I replied softly. “Don’t worry. I’m not very hungry yet. Let’s take it slow.”


    But Liam’s expression remained serious. He looked at me as if weighing whether I was telling the truth or


    simply holding back. After a few seconds of silence, he finally stood, letting out a brief sigh.


    “In that case, I’ll make you some juice. It’s lighter.”


    I instinctively tried to refuse. “Liam, you don’t need to bother. I…”


    But before I could finish, he was already moving into the kitchen. His movements were brisk, filled with


    energy, as though making juice for me was the most important task of the morning. All I could do was


    watch his back as he busied himself, and somehow, my protest no longer seemed necessary. There was


    determination in his face, something that made it hard for me to take this away from him. So I stayed quiet, letting him.


    I remained seated at the table, my fingers tracing the cool edge of the wood. The sounds from the kitchen


    reached me faintly the fridge door opening, the clink of ss, the soft thud of fruit being cut, then the


    steady hum of the blender. Together they formed a morning rhythm that was both unfamiliar and


    soothing.


    Something stirred in my chest. Small acts of care like this perhaps they had once happened often, but I couldn’t recall when I hadst felt them. Back then, we argued constantly, even over small things. But now Liam seemed so different, calmer<b>, </b>more patient, as if a new space had opened within him that I had


    never known before.


    I leaned back, letting my eyes rest on the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains, casting gentle patterns across the floor. It felt warm, yet heavy. I wanted to believe Liam’s kindness was genuine, but a part of me remained afraid, asking: was this only temporary<b>? </b>


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    The blender stopped, reced by the sounds of Liam’s footsteps moving again. He was likely pouring the juice into a ss, arranging it with his quiet, meticulous care. I could only sit there, waiting, my heart beating faster for reasons I couldn’t exin.


    For a moment, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Beneath all the confusion, a small part of my heart whispered: maybe, just maybe, I still wanted to believe in the togetherness that had once been lost.


    It didn’t take long before he returned, carrying two sses of fresh juice. He set them on the dining table, pushing one toward me.


    “Here. I hope the taste is okay,” he said softly, though I caught a hint of tension in his eyes.


    I reached for the ss slowly. The coolness of the juice touched my fingers, bringing a simple sensation that, for some reason, felt soothing. “Thank you,” I said atst.


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