Forty minutes after sprinting out of her office, Hazel was running on pure adrenaline and emotional avoidance. Her mind was a high-speed calculator, and the answer it kept spitting out was: Get out. She hauled two reusable grocery bags laden with "apology snacks"—mostly chocolate cream buns, her emotional fallback food—into the sleek, steel elevator of her new apartment building, The Pinnacle. It was a terrible name for a standard mid-rise, but its location, three suburbs away from Leo's penthouse, was its greatest virtue.
She jabbed the button for the 7th floor. Her sister, Rose, an aspiring novelist with a brain full of romantic melodrama, was supposedly waiting inside with the keys. Hazel checked her reflection in the polished steel doors. She looked like the Head Interior Designer at a prestigious firm, yet felt like a teenager hiding from a bad date.
She had spent the last week running a mathematically perfect equation of avoidance, all centered on Leo, The CEO of the firm she works and her secret boyfriend for 2 years. The city was too small, the truth—that she had seen a grainy, silent video clip of him and her supposed friend, Mia, stumbling into a bar-hotel elevator, an action she had interpreted as confirmation that Mia's one-year-old daughter Celine, was his—was too big to confront.
She was waiting for the perfect moment: a moment when she had all the facts, or maybe a moment when she no longer cared. Neither seemed to be arriving. So, she ran.
Just as the elevator doors began to slide shut, the sensors registered an obstruction. The doors immediately reopened, letting in a gust of stale lobby air.
Standing there, breathing heavily, was Leo.
No, no, no! The Calculus of Avoidance had failed spectacularly. This wasn't just a brief intersection; this was a trap.
He looked stressed, his designer suit—the one she'd picked out for him last Christmas—rumpled, his dark hair a mess as if he'd been running his hands through it. His brown eyes, usually alight with sharp intelligence, were shadowed with confusion and relief.
"Hazel! Thank God. I followed you," he admitted, stepping inside. He was the CEO; his life demanded the top floors. Hazel knew he wasn't here for the view. "We need to talk. I don't understand what's going on. You haven't answered my calls. You abandoned the Kothari proposal meeting. Mia said you seemed distracted..."
The mention of Mia's name was like a needle skittering across a record. It was the absolute worst thing he could have said. It confirmed her suspicions—they were talking, they were in contact, and he was clearly worried about Hazel's behavior because Mia was now in his ear, probably helping him track her down.
She couldn't be trapped in this small metal box with him. The air was thick with the scent of his expensive cologne and the overwhelming weight of their two-year-long, now possibly ruined, relationship.
"Oh, uh, I forgot something!" she blurted out, the lie leaping from her mouth before her conscious mind could even process it. She stepped out of the elevator quickly, her grocery bags jostling. "Downstairs! Totally forgot my wallet! I need that to, uh, sign for the delivery! Be right back!"
"Hazel, wait!" Leo reached out, but she was already moving.
"No time! Emergency! Don't move the lift!" she called over her shoulder, not waiting for his reply, already running toward the back staircase.
She ran down the short hallway to the emergency exit door, which chimed loudly as she yanked it open. She took the concrete stairs two at a time, her mind racing. The building was only eight floors. She could outrun him, out-climb him.
He's waiting for the lift to come back down. I'll be on the 7th floor before he even realizes I took the stairs.
She raced past the 6th floor landing, past the 7th floor, and didn't slow down until she reached the 8th floor landing, panting like a marathon runner who had only trained for a sprint. The heavy, plastic shopping bags were cutting deep, red grooves into her fingers.
Okay. Safe now.
She leaned against the concrete wall, catching her breath. Her actual apartment was 701. But she couldn't risk the elevator, and she couldn't risk Leo seeing her walk down the stairs to the next landing. It was too visible, too logical. She needed a moment to compose herself, to stop shaking.
She fumbled in her pocket for her new phone and called Rose. Rose picked up on the first ring, clearly interrupting her reading—Hazel could hear the faint, whooshing sound of a turning page.
"Rose, I'm here. Open the door. I took the stairs, and I'm about to collapse. Please just grab the keys."
"Got it, babe," Rose said, her voice muffled as if she were speaking into her shoulder. "Just promise me you'll read this chapter later. The protagonist just realized his nemesis is actually his long-lost twin! Such literary drama!"
"Will do," Hazel said, forcing a faint, breathless laugh. "Just open up."
Hazel took a final, deep breath, tried to smooth the creases in her work dress, and walked toward the apartment hallway. The 8th floor was identical to the 7th. The same light beige paint, the same three doors. She walked toward the first door on the left: Apartment 801.
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She rang the bell. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs, but it was a nervous, physical beat, not the sick, emotional thud Leo's presence provoked.
Behind the door, a faint, metallic clang sounded. A low, ragged sigh. And then, the lock clicked.
The door opened slowly. It revealed not her dramatic, novel-obsessed older sister, but a man.
A devastatingly handsome man.
He was tall, lean, and dressed in a loose, cream-colored linen shirt that was unbuttoned carelessly, revealing a toned chest. He had the kind of dark, thick hair that looked eternally mussed, and eyes that were the color of rich, dark coffee. But it was the expression in those eyes that made Hazel freeze: he looked confused, startled, and yet, completely, utterly heartbroken. The raw, unprotected despair on his face was a physical blow.
His name was Jake. And he had just been staring at his own reflection, calculating the best way to end the suffocating, predictable life his father had forced upon him.
Jake's reality was a sterile cage of expectation. His father, a titan of industry, had mapped out Jake's entire existence: the college, the major (Economics, of course), the fiancée (a socialite his father approved of), and the eventual takeover of the family empire. His own dream—to become a film composer—had been crushed years ago, along with the memory of his mother who had walked out when he was seven. He was a wealthy, successful puppet. And moments before that doorbell rang, he had been standing on a wobbly stool, the antique silk rope he'd bought in Paris dangling from the ceiling hook, ready to finally take control by ending it all.
The doorbell, that insistent, cheerful little chime, had yanked him out of the abyss. He had stumbled off the stool and fumbled with the locks, wondering who could possibly be at his door. He barely knew his neighbors. He was just about to close the gap between his life and death, and someone had interrupted him.
He stood there, a thick, braided silk rope still dangling from one hand, staring at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
Hazel's eyes were wide, the color of moss after a spring rain, framed by dark, worried lashes. She was holding two brightly colored plastic bags. The sight of her, the smell of fresh laundry and bakery sweetness, the sound of her rapid, anxious breathing, was so intensely life-affirming that Jake felt the suffocating pressure in his chest suddenly ease. He felt a fierce, unexpected pang: the desire to stay. To keep looking at her.
"Oh my God," Hazel gasped, the sound barely a whisper. She took in the scene: the sparse, impeccably minimalist apartment, the abandoned stool, the thick, braided rope in his hand, and the unspeakable sorrow etched on his face.
The plastic grocery bag slipped from her suddenly numb fingers and hit the polished floor with a soft, dull thud. A couple of those apology chocolate cream buns rolled out, stopping at his immaculately shined Italian shoes.
"I... I am so sorry," she stammered, pulling her eyes away from the rope and the despair. "I must have the wrong floor. I—I'm new here. I'm so confused with the numbers."
The lie felt hollow, but true fear for this stranger was swirling in her stomach. She realized he was actively grieving, perhaps actively saving himself. And she was the catalyst. She had inadvertently provided the most profound, life-altering interruption.
Jake only stared, speechless. He didn't hear the apology or the explanation. He only saw her. Her eyes. Her startled, kind face. He felt the overwhelming desire to reach out, to reassure her, to tell her that whatever deep sadness had drawn him to the brink, she had instantly, miraculously, replaced it with a desperate, all-consuming hope.
"The floor below," he finally managed, his voice raspy and unused. It was the first thing he had wanted to say in months, maybe years. "I think... you want the seventh."
Hazel stepped back, her face flushing crimson. She quickly bent down to retrieve her bags and the errant chocolate buns. She picked up one of the buns—perfectly intact, glazed with chocolate—and pushed it into his hand.
"Here. As an apology. For, um, ringing your bell. And interrupting whatever you were doing. Welcome to the building." Her voice cracked slightly as she gave him a small, compassionate smile. "I'm Hazel."
The warmth of the bun against his palm was the first tangible warmth Jake had felt in a lifetime. He looked at the bun, then back at her, his eyes still wide with shock and a confusing new emotion.
"Jake," he whispered. "Welcome."
Hazel gave a quick, awkward nod, clutched her bags, and practically fled the 8th floor. As she raced down the stairs to the 7th floor landing, she could feel his intense, searching gaze on her back. For the first time, she was running toward something, not away from it.
And for the first time in his twenty-eight years, Jake looked at the rope dangling from his hand and felt a wave of profound, intoxicating regret that he had almost missed the next moment of his life.
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Meanwhile, one floor below, on the 7th floor, Apartment 701 opened to reveal a wide-eyed Rose.
Rose, a dedicated reader of gothic romances and pulp fiction, was five years Hazel's senior and believed wholeheartedly in the mystical, the melodramatic, and the utterly impossible. She was wearing mismatched socks, a vintage velvet dressing gown, and had a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. She was holding her phone to her ear, having just heard Hazel's instructions: "I'm here. Open the door."
Rose looked at the phone, then at the man standing in the doorway—a tall, impeccably dressed man who looked profoundly annoyed, confused, and utterly exhausted.
It was Leo.
Leo, after waiting impatiently in the elevator, realized Hazel hadn't returned. He had pressed the button for the 7th floor—her new apartment—and decided to confront her. He needed to talk, to explain, to understand why his calm, brilliant girlfriend was suddenly treating him like a stranger.
Rose dropped her phone. The fictional, over-the-top conclusion her mind leapt to was instantaneous, powerful, and totally nonsensical.
Hazel said she was here. But this is Leo.
'In the book I'm reading, the hero swaps bodies with the villain via a magical amulet!'
Hazel has been so sad, so withdrawn... she must have wished to be free of her feelings for Leo, and the universe—or a poorly translated ancient curse—granted her wish!
"Oh my God," Rose gasped, her hands flying to her mouth, her voice a mix of terror and thrilling realization. "is this what i am thinking!"
Leo took a step back, convinced Rose was either high or insane. "Excuse me? I need to see... Hazel. Can I-."
Rose didn't listen to the actual words; she heard the dramatic subtext of the body swap. "Oh, my poor sister! You're an idiot, but How did this happened? is it because you cried so much about this... handsome bastard!"
She grabbed Leo's expensive, custom-tailored arm and dragged him inside the apartment, slamming the door shut.
"Tell me, Hazel, how did you get yourself inside Leo's body?" Rose's eyes, bright with the thrill of the supernatural, scanned Leo's face. "Is his memory intact? Did the body swap damage his brain cells? Oh, don't worry, darling, I'll take care of you. We'll figure out how to get you back. Maybe it's a full moon thing. Or a salt circle thing!"
Leo stared, utterly bewildered, at the frenzied woman who had just kidnapped him. "Rose, stop! you are talking nonsense! I don't know what you are talking about. I just need to speak to haz-!"
"Oh, the denial!" Rose clapped her hands together, nodding sagely. "A classic literary trope! You're trying to protect your old identity. Don't worry, Leo," she said, stressing his name with suspicion, "I'll play along! Now, how is his body? Does it hurt? Are we going to have to live with you, the Head Interior Designer, inside your CEO boyfriend's body for the rest of our lives? Because you need to tell me if his suits are dry-clean only."
Rose bustled off toward the small kitchen, clearly looking for a 'body swap reversal kit.'
Leo was trapped, dumbfounded, in a stranger's apartment, being held hostage by a maniac who thought he was possessed by his own girlfriend. The strain of the past week, the confusion over Hazel's coldness, and now this sudden, utterly ridiculous encounter broke through his composure. He stood in the middle of the minimalist living room, his hands running through his already messy hair, feeling a desperate, aching need to talk to Hazel.
Just then, the front door of Apartment 701 swung open again.
It was Hazel.
She had just had a profound, life-affirming encounter with the despairing man on the 8th floor. She had witnessed a moment of pure, raw human vulnerability and, for a second, had forgotten her own emotional crisis. She was focused, energized, and ready to face her sister, apologize for the messy first-floor run-in, and maybe eat an entire tray of chocolate cream buns.
She stepped inside and stopped dead in her tracks.
Her sister, Rose, was crouched by the pantry, holding a half-eaten jar of olives and muttering something about a 'cleansing ritual.' And her CEO and boyfriend, Leo, was standing in the middle of the room, looking like a dishevelled, utterly desperate man who was moments away from an emotional breakdown.
"Oh, thank God!" Rose cried, leaping up, startling both Hazel and Leo. She pointed the olive jar dramatically at Leo. "Hazel! You're back! And you're you again! The reversal must have been instantaneous! What happened? Did you finally shake Leo's soul out of your body?"
Hazel stared at Rose. Then at Leo. Then back at Rose, the olive jar, and the general state of absolute, chaotic messiness.
"Rose," Hazel said, her voice dangerously quiet. "What. Is. Going. On."
Leo's head whipped around, relief warring with an intense, burning frustration. "Hazel! Thank you! Tell her! I'm Leo! I'm myself! And for the love of God, can you please tell me why you've been avoiding me for an entire week?"
Hazel's carefully constructed equilibrium shattered. The sight of Leo's desperation only fueled the fiery suspicion ignited by Mia's return and the damning video. He's a good liar. A great actor. He's trying to corner me. He wants to manipulate me into forgetting about Celine.
She straightened her spine, her Head Interior Designer persona snapping into place.
"Rose, Leo is correct. He is Leo. I am me. There was no body swap. You've been reading too many cheap paperbacks." She walked past him to her sister, took the jar of olives, and placed it back in the pantry.
"Now, Rose, could you please see our unannounced visitor out? I have a delivery coming, and I don't have time for unscheduled office meetings." Hazel refused to look at him, addressing only Rose. "And Leo," she continued, her voice cold and professional, "If you want to discuss work, please send me an email. If you want to discuss our personal relationship, which, based on recent events, appears to be completely over, I suggest you ask yourself some very honest questions about Mia and Celine first. Good day."
She didn't give him a chance to speak. She walked directly into the master bedroom, closed the door quietly, and leaned against it, trembling.
Leo stood frozen, the words "Mia" and "Celine" echoing in his stunned silence. He had been confused before; now he was utterly devastated. Celine? Who is Celine? What does Mia have to do with anything?
Rose, realizing her incredible, supernatural theory had evaporated into thin air, looked at Leo with crushing embarrassment. She saw the raw pain on his face and instantly regretted her absurd outburst.
"Oh," Rose mumbled, covering her mouth. "Oh my God. Leo. I am so sorry. I... I read a lot. I get carried away. I didn't mean to drag you in here and call you a body-swapped bastard."
Leo didn't respond. He only stared at the closed bedroom door, his face a mask of wounded confusion. He wanted to storm the door, to demand an explanation, but Hazel's icy rejection had left him hollow.
He turned and walked silently out of the apartment, the door closing with a soft, final click behind him.
Inside the apartment, Rose instantly felt a tidal wave of regret and an overwhelming need to apologize to the charming CEO she had just verbally assaulted.
Inside the bedroom, Hazel leaned against the door, feeling miserable, yet somehow resolute. She was still running, but she had drawn a line in the sand.
Upstairs, on the 8th floor, Abin stood in the doorway of his sterile apartment, clutching the chocolate cream bun she had given him. He had just canceled a life of despair and, for the first time, felt a thrilling, chaotic pull: the need to find that kind, beautiful, stressed-out woman again. He wanted to do something that his father had never planned for. He wanted to live.
The wrong door had led to the right person. Now, all four people were set on a collision course, propelled by chaos, misunderstanding, and the powerful, unpredictable forces of sudden, inconvenient attraction.