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The thought should annoy me, maybe even stress me out, but it doesn’t. If anything, a quiet excitement settles deep in my chest, steady and warm.

What’s coming next is going to be intense. Demanding. Chaotic, even.

And I love it.

I love creating. I love taking a dull, lifeless space and reshaping it into one that breathes, one that feels alive, complete. For me, watching a place change under my hands, knowing that every detail exists because I chose it, has become an addiction.

I studied for an entire month before taking that test with Zayn. A full month of planning, sketching, and rethinking every possible angle.

I even enrolled in and attended a week-long course in London on casino and nightclub interior design, just to make sure I had everything under control.

I knew Zayn would want us to meet in London, and it seemed like the perfect opportunity to arrive a week early—not only to get ahead of things, but also to learn new skills and gather insights that could help me bring his vision to life.

And even though it felt like a low blow—to be asked to prove myself like that, considering my experience and the name I’ve built—I knew better than to let pride get in the way.

Opportunities like that don’t come twice.

So I stayed quiet.

And I accepted his demands.

Now I’m about to go back to London. But they also have casinos and clubs in New York, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and Manchester, which means I won’t be staying in one place for long.

I’ll be moving constantly.

From one city to another. From one project to the next. Working on all of them at the same time.

And this is exactly what I need. I have to keep my mind occupied.

Because every time I slow down, every time I allow myself a moment of rest, my thoughts gather all at once, like an avalanche, pressing in, suffocating me little by little.

I drift closer to the glass wall of my apartment and rest my shoulder slightly against it. From the thirty-sixth floor, the city stretches beneath me in shifting patterns of movement and light. Even from up here, I can see them—people weaving through the streets, caught in the rhythm of their own lives. Everyone is heading somewhere. Everyone is chasing something.

No one stops.

And realizing that a few months ago helped more than anything else.

It made me understand that life doesn’t pause. The world doesn’t hold its breath just because yours feels like it shattered, cracked open, scattered into pieces you’re still trying to gather.

Down there, they keep going.

And I can’t help but wonder how many of them are carrying heavy traumas—traumas they don’t show. How many walk with that quiet weight tucked deep in their chest or buried in their thoughts, difficult to name, even harder to bear.

Yet they still move forward.

They choose to.

At some point, I realized that there are struggles far heavier than mine. Real tragedies. Lives marked by loss in ways I can’t even begin to measure.

And people endure.

The sharp ring of my phone pulls me out of the depths of my thoughts. I push myself away from the window, the city slipping out of focus behind me, and walk into the kitchen, where the device vibrates on the counter.

Mom.

“Honey, how are you?” she asks the moment the call connects.

“Good, Mom,” I reply, a soft exhale leaving my lips. “I just finished packing everything, and I’m about to head to the airport. What are you guys doing?”