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I sit at my usual corner window with the late afternoon sun spilling in. I have my back to the brick wall, laptop open.

My screen is split in half—on one side, Lightroom waits patiently, and on the other, my university portal glares back at me with overdue deadlines and red-highlighted feedback.

I skim lecture notes on visual semiotics, how meaning is constructed through framing, absence, and negative space. The professor loves that phrase: negative space. As if emptiness is something you can politely name and control. I take notes anyway, jotting down reminders.

I minimize the tab and flip to my emails.

Subject: Re: Photography Inquiry - Greenfell Nature Reserve.

They want images for their website. Establishing shots, wildlife if possible, and early morning light. ‘Authentic atmosphere.’

I quote a rate that’s just low enough to be accepted and just high enough to matter. I attach my portfolio and hit send.

Bills don’t pay themselves. So despite having my hands full at uni, I regularly do photography gigs during my spare time.

When I turned eighteen, a massive payout came through. Insurance. Settlements. Enough zeros to thank the dead.

And enough to fucking leave my birth town.

I moved to this city with a duffel bag, my mother’s old Nikon, and a scholarship letter folded so many times the creases threatened to tear.

Competitive enough that it looked impressive on paper. Practical enough that it locked me here.

This university. This program. This city.

I put a deposit on the apartment, bought the motorcycle because why the fuck not?

I told myself it was practical. I told myself a lot of things back then.

I built my freelance work on my mother’s equipment; her lenses, her battered camera body, her habits. Over the years, I upgraded piece by piece. Sold prints. Shot events. Took portraits I didn’t care about and landscapes I pretended not to love.

The inheritance was supposed to last longer.

Laughter from across the café pulls me from my thoughts, and my eyes skim over the screen one last time before calling it a day. I take one last sip of my now cold coffee before shutting my laptop and sliding it into its sleeve.

I made the most of my time here in the last two days but already know I’m going to catch glaring eyes from my professor tomorrow. Professor Liu doesn’t believe in ‘getting sick’ and thinks it’s an excuse to be lazy… don’t know what his immune system is made of, but hey, whatever lets him sleep at night. Although I did use it as an excuse, I hardly know if being an accomplice to a murder counts as a viable excuse to skip school for a week.

Anyway, this quiet urban cafe is the only place where my brain behaves. Something about the low hum of lo-fi, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the soft clatter of ceramic cups keeps the static on in my head. At home, the walls listen too closely. Out here, everything is already overheard. Still, my eyes flick up every few seconds. Over my shoulder. To the door. To the reflection in the glass.

Habit now, of-fucking-course.

I let out an exhausted sigh before standing up and sliding the laptop bag over my shoulder. It’s been two days since my encounter at the gym with Lucas. Amani has messaged me every day since Xavier disappeared. She calls to check if I’ve eaten, if I’m sleeping, if I’m locking my doors.

She wants to come over. Keeps saying it casually, like she’s not counting the days.

She’s been more protective lately. Hovering over me like a mother hen. Like sensing a fracture but can’t see the fault line.

I slide out of the corner booth and head for the counter.

The place looks like it’s trying to outgrow the concrete it’s trapped in. All exposed brick walls softened by hanging plants, vines trailing down black metal shelves, leaves curling around warm bulbs like they’re guarding the light. Polished cement floors and mismatched wooden tables scarred with old burn marks and initials.

I step up to the counter just as the barista looks up.

Emily smiles before I even open my mouth. “Oh, Adrian!” she exclaims with the softest of features, already reaching for a cup. It’s embarrassing how well this barista knows my caffeine habits. She tucks a loose auburn curl behind her ear as she asks, “Your usual?”

“Two,” I say, voice neutral. That makes her pause. She glances at the second cup she’s pulling, then at me. “Two?” she repeats, gentle curiosity edging her tone. “Who’s the other one for?”

I tap the edge of my laptop bag with one finger. “Me and the deadline tomorrow,” I reply, already dreading the work that lies ahead of me. She lights up like I’ve just told her something wonderful. “Oh.” A soft laugh escapes her glossed-up lips. “One of those days.”