“Alright. If you need anything—anything at all—tell me. I’ll help you,” Hazel said before they ended the call.
Mia stared at the black screen of her phone for a second longer, her fingers curling slowly around the device as if she wasn’t ready to let it go yet. Then she placed it back on the small table and exhaled shakily.
The apartment around her felt too quiet.
It was small but warm—soft yellow lights glowing against the pale walls, a faint scent of fresh paint lingering in the air. The building was modest, a bit old, and the apartment was on the fourth floor. It was a studio apartment where the living room and kitchen blended together, and the single bedroom opened through a narrow door.
There wasn’t much inside.
Just a lonely suitcase in the corner, half-open with clothes spilling out. A few new outfits she bought using Sawyer’s card hung limply on a metal rack. No decorations. No photos. No warmth. Nothing that made the space look lived in. Just space and cold air.
She hadn’t gone back to Alexander’s house even once—not even to collect her things.
The very thought of stepping into that house made her chest tighten as if an invisible hand squeezed it.
She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stop the trembling in her fingers. The apartment was quiet and the silence made her breaths sound loud, uneven.
It wasn’t like leaving James.
When she walked away from James, she felt nothing—no attachment, no weight, nothing pulling her back.
But thinking about Alexander’s house… her chest burned sharply, and tears slipped down her cheeks before she could even breathe in.
She didn’t expect to miss Alexander this much. She didn’t expect the emptiness to feel like a rock crushing her lungs.
Every time his name crossed her mind, every time she remembered his voice, his touch, the way his eyes softened for her, the rock inside her chest pressed harder.
Even the memory of his house hurt.
The hallways they walked through. The scent of his cologne clinging to the bedroom. The bed they shared—warm then, now nothing but a cold memory.
Her fingers clutched at her shirt as if she could hold her heart together long enough to breathe.
The night passed the way every night had for weeks—slow, heavy, dragging like time itself was punishing her. Mia barely slept. She would drift off for an hour or two, then jerk awake, her body too tired and her mind too full to rest.
Most nights, she sat by the small window with its peeling paint. The street below was always quiet, the streetlight flickeringsoftly. Cars rarely passed. Sometimes stray dogs wandered by, their shadows stretching long on the asphalt. She would watch the world move in slow motion until her eyes finally burned and started to close.
Only then did she drag herself to the cold bed and fall asleep.
By morning, exhaustion sat on her shoulders like weight. But she still pushed herself into her routine. She walked to the tiny kitchen, the tiles cold under her feet, and made herself a cup of coffee. The bitter smell filled the apartment, almost comforting, almost enough to steady her breathing.
A few hours later, she stepped outside. The air carried the faint smell of dust and morning traffic. Her body felt heavy, her limbs sluggish, but she kept moving. The city around her was waking up—buses growling past, vendors shouting softly, people hurrying down the street. She blended into the movement and walked toward the bus stop, forcing her feet forward one step at a time.
She reached the main road and boarded her usual bus, slipping into a seat by the window. The glass was cool against her arm. Outside, the city rolled past—shops opening their shutters, street vendors arranging their stalls, early morning fog still hanging low over the road.
After a few miles, she got off and stopped in front of the small entertainment company—the place she had started working just last week. The building wasn’t big, just three floors with fading paint and a glass door that always creaked when pushed.
After leaving Alexander, she never stepped inside his company again.
The thought of seeing him—of meeting his eyes even for a second—made her feel like her heart would stop. So she accepted the first job she found, and ended up here as an assistant.
She climbed the narrow stairs, the metal railing cool under her fingers, and walked into the building. The reception desk was directly ahead, covered with scattered files and a half-empty coffee mug. The moment she passed it, the receptionist, Erica, shot up from her chair.
“Mia! Come here!”
Mia turned, confused but polite, and walked over. Erica leaned forward, lowering her voice as if sharing a dangerous secret.
“There’s a man in your office,” she whispered. “He specifically requested you for a meeting about his advertising campaign.”
