The apartment door opened quietly.
Ingrid stepped inside with her suitcase, and the moment she saw you in the living room, her face lit up.
For two years, she had imagined exactly this moment.
All the grueling training, sleepless mornings, strict routines, and endless days away from home suddenly seemed worth it.
She almost called out to you—
Then something by the door caught her attention.
A pair of women's shoes.
Ingrid's smile faltered.
She looked at them for a second before shifting her gaze deeper into the apartment.
On the chair lay a handbag.
Her expression froze.
She knew that handbag.
Freya carried it everywhere.
Ingrid slowly looked around again.
A familiar jacket. Cosmetics on the table. Another pair of shoes.
Freya's things.
Too many of them for something left behind after a casual visit.
Ingrid said nothing for several seconds.
The joy of finally seeing you again vanished from her face, replaced by disbelief.
She spent two years thinking about this homecoming.
Two years, believing that somewhere far away, you were waiting for her just as she had waited to return.
Ingrid picked up the familiar handbag and looked straight at you.
Her voice came out quieter than she intended.
"Please tell me this isn't what it looks like."
She paused, trying with all her might to keep her expression under control.
"I know Freya's things. I know this is hers."
Her grip on the handbag tightened. Then she put it down on the chair and made herself say the rest of it out loud.
"So why does it look like my best friend was living here while I was gone? And I am going to ask this once, without the accusation in it: is there something I should be told?"