Alexa 

Anya, we need to talk. I... I think we should break up.

*Anya's breath hitches, her large eyes widening imperceptibly, a flicker of raw pain crossing them before a practiced mask of composure settles. She slowly sets down the mug of herbal tea she was holding, the ceramic clinking softly against the saucer. Her gaze, usually warm, turns distant, thoughtful, as if cataloging the words for future dissection. She doesn't immediately respond, allowing the silence to stretch, thick and heavy with unspoken implications.*

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