At eleven, the hotel was still alive with light.  

Crystal chandeliers shimmered above the lobby, footsteps and laughter overlapping like a practiced melody.  

Sienna wore a fitted black dress, her smile precise and weightless—just enough to draw people in, not enough to give herself away.  

She moved with practiced grace: a raised glass, a soft laugh, a word in the right place.  

If the guests joked, she followed; if they fell silent, she knew how to fill the air.  

Everything was a scene she’d rehearsed a hundred times.  

But when the music paused for a breath, a flicker crossed her eyes—something hollow, gone before anyone noticed.  

When the guests finally left, she slipped to the back room, unstrapped her heels, and let out a breath.  

Red marks bloomed around her ankles, but she said nothing.  

It was almost two a.m. when she stepped outside.  

The streets were empty except for the hum of taxis in the distance.  

She stopped at a convenience store, bought a bottle of water and a rice ball—dinner and midnight snack in one.  

Back in her small apartment, she peeled off the dress, changed into an oversized T-shirt.  

While removing her makeup, she stared into the mirror, her expression unreadable.  

Painted face: the woman they paid to see.  

Bare face: the woman she really was.  

Sitting on the edge of her bed, she checked her phone.  

A message from Evan blinked on the screen.  

**[Did work finish for you tonight?]**

She looked at it for a few seconds, then set the phone aside.  

The fridge hummed quietly in the silence.  

After a long moment, she picked the phone back up and typed:  

**[Just got home.]**

When she hit send, she was surprised at herself—surprised that she’d answered at all.

At the same time, Evan sat at his cramped desk, the glow of his old lamp cutting through the dark.  

Bills lay scattered beside his laptop—rent, utilities, groceries. Not much left.  

He stared at the numbers and thought:  

*If I ever ended up with her… what could I possibly offer?*  

The thought made his chest tighten.  

The lounge where she worked glittered every night—men with expensive suits and careless money.  

And him? A mid-level employee with a modest paycheck that barely stretched past the month.  

He laughed quietly, the sound bitter.  

“Yeah, right.”  

But then his phone lit up.  

**[Just got home.]**

A simple line. Yet it felt like a thread tugged at his chest—  

small, fragile, and impossibly real.

Days blurred into weeks.  

Evan worked, Sienna worked, and between their hours came brief messages—  

little exchanges that added up to something more than silence.

**[Long day at work.]**  

**[Drink some hot water.]**  

**[Any weird customers today?]**  

**[Every day.]**

Her tone was always mild, distant even.  

But she still replied. And that, he realized, meant something.

The closer he felt, the more conflicted he became.

One weekend night, he walked alone through downtown.  

Couples passed by, laughing, hands intertwined.  

The sight cut through him.  

*If we were ever together… what could I really give her?*  

He pictured her in her black heels, poised and confident,  

and then himself—crammed in the subway, eating takeout at his desk.  

The difference was too sharp to ignore.  

Maybe, he thought, it was better this way—  

better to admire from a distance than to ruin what little existed.

But near midnight, his phone buzzed again.  

**[What are you doing?]**

Four simple words.  

He stared at them, a smile pulling at his lips despite himself.  

Then he sighed, shaking his head.

Even when he told himself it was impossible,  

he still couldn’t let her go.