The door closed with a soft click behind Tisha.
She stood there for a few seconds, her hand still resting on the doorknob as she quietly observed her friend.
Miranda sat behind the large desk, her posture straight, but her eyes were distant and heavy with unspoken pain.
Tisha let out a soft breath, then slowly walked across the office. Her steps were calm and measured. She gently placed the file on the desk before pulling out the chair opposite Miranda and sitting down.
The silence stretched between them... thick, heavy, and filled with everything that didn't need to be said out loud.
Then Tisha broke the silence, her voice sharp and clearly annoyed.
"You're still crying over that fool?"
Miranda didn't answer immediately. She simply stared at the nameplate on her desk—Miranda Whitman—as if the words themselves mocked her.
After a long pause, she finally spoke, her voice low and filled with confusion.
