Greyhaven City did not welcome Oliver with warmth.
It welcomed him with silence. And Oliver loved it for that.
The buildings were tall and grey, the streets always busy but never loud in a friendly way. People walked fast, eyes forward, minds elsewhere. No one cared who you were or where you came from.
He studied hard. Very hard. He don't want to be his past self who only excelled in a subject.
Classes in mathematics, computer science, cryptography—subjects that demanded focus and rewarded loneliness. Numbers never judged him. Codes never asked questions. Logic made sense in a way people never did.
When lectures ended, he went straight to work.
The supermarket became his second home.
Long shelves. Cold floors. Bright lights that made everything feel unreal. He stocked items, cleaned aisles, helped customers with forced smiles. Some days his feet hurt so badly he thought he might collapse. Still, he never complained.
At night, he returned to the apartment.
And that was where his new life truly began.
Oliver still remembered the first day clearly.
Greyhaven had already exhausted him. The long bus ride. The unfamiliar streets. The tight knot in his chest that refused to loosen. When he finally arrived at the apartment, he felt relief for the first time that day.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The living room was neat. Clean.
Someone was sitting on the sofa.
A young lady, elegant and calm, dressed in men's clothes—loose shirt, fitted trousers. She sat with one leg crossed over the other, a laptop balanced on her thigh. Her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail.
Oliver froze.
"Oh—sorry," he said quickly. "I think I might be early."
He stepped inside anyway, confused. Maybe this is his roommate's girlfriend, he thought.
Then a voice spoke.
"You must be Oliver."
Oliver turned sharply.
There was no one else in the room.
His heart skipped.
Slowly, his eyes returned to the person on the sofa.
She—no, they—looked up and smiled.
"I'm Lois," the person said calmly. "The one you met online."
Oliver's brain refused to work.
His jaw dropped slightly before he could stop it.
"Oh," he said. Then, stupidly, "Oh."
Lois chuckled. Not offended. Just amused.
"I get that a lot," they said. "Take your time."
Only then did Oliver really look. Not in a rude way—just noticing. The chest was flat. The shoulders were soft but not feminine. The face was gentle, but there was something firm about it too. Something grounded.
"I—uh," Oliver cleared his throat. "Nice to finally meet you."
"Same," Lois replied. "Your room's the one on the left."
That was it.
No big conversation.
No awkward tension after that.
Strangely, Oliver relaxed.
Life with Lois was… quiet.
They were not best friends. They did not share deep secrets or stay up all night talking. But they understood each other in a calm, wordless way.
They respected space.
They cleaned after themselves.
They rarely argued.
Sometimes they cooked together. Sometimes they ate in silence. Other times they watched movies without speaking at all.
And it was enough.
Lois never asked Oliver about his past. Oliver never asked about Lois's family. He only knew that Lois had none. Or at least, none they talked about.
In a way, they were the same.
Oliver had a mother, yes—but she lived far away, surrounded by machines, drugs, and hospital walls. A life stretched thin by money that was not his.
So they stayed together.
Even after graduation.
Same apartment. Same routines. Same quiet.
University passed like a long breath held too tightly.
Oliver graduated with good grades. Excellent, actually. Professors praised him. Some suggested further research. Others hinted at future opportunities.
He nodded. Smiled. Thanked them.
But inside, he felt… empty.
He moved through life carefully. No risks. No attachments. No deep connections.
He stopped expecting happiness.
At night, when the city finally slept, that was when Liam came back to him.
In thoughts only.
The sound of a motorcycle.
A laugh too loud.
Hands warm around his waist.
Eyes that looked at him like nothing else mattered.
Oliver would stare at the ceiling, heart aching in a way that never fully healed.
He never reached out.
Not once.
Because if he did, everything he had built—this controlled, fragile peace—might shatter.
And Oliver could not afford to fall apart again.
So he kept going.
Day after day.
Year after year.
Quiet.
Distant.
Surviving.
And somewhere far away, without him knowing, another life was doing the same—
just louder, colder, and filled with storms.
Oliver's new job was at a private research institute that specialized in secure communication systems. It sounded important when people heard the name, but the work itself was quiet. There were no loud meetings, no crowds, no rush to impress anyone.
The job was demanding in a silent way.
Most days, Oliver arrived early. The building was always clean and calm, with soft lights and long white hallways. His office was small but neat. A desk. Two screens. A notebook filled with careful handwriting. A mug that always smelled of coffee, even when it was empty.
He spent long hours alone.
He read data. He tested codes. He checked systems again and again, looking for weak points that others might miss. Sometimes he worked so deeply that he forgot the time. By the time he looked up, the sun outside his window was already fading.
It was tiring work, but it suited him.
The silence helped. It kept his thoughts in order. There was no space for noise, and more importantly, no space for memories he did not want to face. When his mind tried to wander, the numbers pulled him back. The problems demanded his full attention. And Oliver gave it willingly.
The pay was stable. Comfortable.
He was not rich, but he did not worry about money either. He could pay rent, buy groceries, visit his mother anytime, and still afford small things—good coffee, new notebooks, the occasional quiet meal outside. It was enough. More than enough for someone like him.
After a few months, Oliver and Lois moved again.
This time, they rented an apartment closer to Oliver's workplace. The place was bigger than their old one. The rent was higher. The rooms were brighter. But they could both afford it, and for the first time, Oliver allowed himself not to feel guilty about living somewhere nice.
The apartment was quiet in the mornings and calm at night. Lois worked in the living room most days, laptop open, headphones on, while Oliver stayed in his room or left early for work. They did not talk much, but they understood each other. There were no questions, no pressure, no need to explain things.
Sometimes, late at night, Oliver would sit alone by the window with a cup of coffee growing cold in his hands. The city lights stretched far into the distance, steady and unmoving.
This was his life now.
Orderly. Controlled. Safe.
And if he was honest with himself, it was also lonely. But loneliness was something he knew how to survive...