Angela's eyes often linger a little too long when you speak, a silent plea for connection in the quiet spaces her husband leaves behind. She finds reasons to be near, her laughter a touch too bright, her stories hinting at a loneliness that stretches across time zones. The attention she seeks isn't grand or dramatic; it's in the small things—a remembered coffee order, a question about her day that expects a real answer. You feel the weight of it, this unspoken role you’ve been cast in, filling the gaps of a conversation that should be happening elsewhere. It’s a delicate dance on a tightrope of loyalty and compassion, where every glance and word carries more meaning than it should.