Morning came without permission.
I'd stayed up late reading over contracts that didn't need my attention until next week, partly to avoid the quiet, partly to convince myself I was still the same woman I'd always been precise, efficient, unaffected.
But sleep didn't bring relief. My dreams were restless, filled with fragments I couldn't quite hold onto rain-soaked sidewalks, a warm laugh I couldn't ignore, shadows lengthening across glass towers.
I woke before my alarm, staring at the faint lines of light spilling through the blinds. The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. Usually that kind of silence comforted me. Today it felt… loaded.
I moved through my morning routine with mechanical precision: coffee brewing, hair pulled back, neutral makeup, black tailored suit. Everything in its place.
But the moment I stepped into the elevator and descended to the lobby, my hand went instinctively to my phone in my coat pocket. I told myself I was just checking the time.
The lock screen was blank. No messages.
A sharper woman, the one I'd trained myself to be, would have felt satisfaction at that. Proof that the other night was already fading, that the threads were loosening. But instead, there was an ache under my ribs.
In the car, I opened my tablet and skimmed the morning reports, but none of the numbers stuck. By the time we reached the office, my focus was already scattered.
Anna was waiting by my desk, a stack of documents in one hand and a knowing look in her eyes.
"You've got the investors' call at ten," she said, placing the papers in front of me. "And your schedule's blocked after lunch for the acquisitions briefing."
"Good," I said, settling into my chair. "Let's keep it tight."
She hesitated. "And… someone left this for you at the front desk."
I glanced up. She held a small paper bag plain, no branding.
I frowned. "From who?"
She shrugged. "No name. Just… this."
I opened the bag. Inside was a pastry from a cafe two streets over. The kind I'd once mentioned liking in passing, months ago, during a rushed coffee run with a client.
There was no note. But I didn't need one.
I closed the bag and set it aside without touching it. "Probably a client," I said evenly.
Anna didn't argue, but her raised eyebrow spoke volumes.
When she left, I stared at the bag for a long moment before pushing it into the drawer. Out of sight, out of mind.
Only, it wasn't out of mind.
The investors' call went smoothly on paper, but my attention kept flicking to the drawer as if it had gravity. I kept telling myself it was nothing a coincidence, a gesture without meaning. But coincidences rarely found their way directly into your morning.
By lunchtime, I'd convinced myself to ignore it. Discipline. That was the rule.
But at two-thirty, during the acquisitions briefing, someone mentioned the name of that café, and I froze for half a beat too long before catching myself.
I hated that it had power over me.
After the meeting, I returned to my office, closed the door, and finally pulled the pastry from the drawer. It was still fresh. The kind with a delicate, flaking crust that made a mess if you weren't careful.
I took one bite.
Ridiculous. It was just food. Yet the taste unlocked something: an image of a sunny morning months ago, the sound of an unguarded laugh, a conversation that had lingered longer than it should have.
I set the pastry down. This was dangerous territory.
That evening, instead of going straight home, I found myself walking through the park. The path was damp from rain, streetlamps glowing faintly in the mist. I told myself it was for exercise, to clear my mind before another night of work.
But deep down, I knew I was retracing steps I shouldn't.
Every sound, the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of traffic seemed sharper. My senses were tuned for something, though I couldn't name it. Or rather, I refused to name it.
Halfway through the path, I stopped by the bench where we'd once talked. It was empty now, glistening faintly under the lamplight.
I stood there for a moment too long before turning away, my heels clicking faster against the path.
When I reached my apartment, I dropped my keys on the table and headed straight for the wine. One glass, then two. I told myself I was unwinding, but really I was silencing the noise in my head.
The phone buzzed just past nine.
I stared at it for a full minute before picking it up.
"Did you ever get that pastry?"
Simple. Harmless.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I could say no. I could say yes. Or I could ignore it.
Instead, I locked the phone and set it face down. My heart was beating faster than it should have for such a small thing.
I spent the rest of the night pretending to read, the words on the page blurring into shapes I couldn't follow.
I told myself this was still under control. That tomorrow I'd wake up and feel nothing.
But as I turned off the lights and stood alone in the dark, I knew that was a lie.
Because the door I'd spent years keeping shut… had moved. Not much. Just enough to let in a thread of air.
And I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to close it again.
I sat there for a long time, staring at the phone in my hand. My life has been built on discipline. On not wanting what I can't afford to want.
I remembered the way I'd walked past him that first day, telling myself I didn't have time. Remembered how I'd stood on the rooftop, telling myself it didn't matter that he was there. Remembered the way the light had caught in his hair, the exact shade of gold before a storm breaks.
I could almost feel the rain again.
And for the first time in years, I realized that I didn't know which was stronger, my will to hold the line, or my need to step over it.
I set the phone down. Stood. Walked to the window. Outside, the city moved on without me.
But my world had shifted. Slightly. Subtly. And I knew, deep down, that sooner or later, I would shift with it.