The alarm went off before the sun came up, and for a few seconds Clara couldn’t remember where she was.  

The sound was too bright for that hour, too mechanical.  

She blinked at the ceiling, waiting for her body to catch up with her mind.  

The bed felt bigger now.  

She’d changed the sheets last night, clean and cold, the kind that didn’t remember the shape of anyone else.  

For a moment she listened—to the faint hum of the refrigerator, to the rain pressing softly against the window, to her own breath trying to find rhythm again.  

She reached for her phone on the nightstand.  

No new messages.  

Not surprising.  

The absence had become its own routine.  

She sat up slowly, pulling her hair into a loose knot.  

The mirror on the opposite wall caught her reflection—pale skin, tired eyes, a body that didn’t fit the stories she used to tell herself.  

She didn’t flinch this time.  

Just looked, and kept looking.  

In the kitchen, the coffee machine sputtered to life.  

Steam rose, curling like thoughts she didn’t want to finish.  

She leaned against the counter, mug warm in her hands, the rain still whispering through the half-open window.  

The city beyond her apartment was half-awake.  

Car tires hissed through puddles; a bus rumbled past, heavy with faces she’d never meet.  

Somewhere, a siren cried and then gave up.  

It was the kind of morning that didn’t promise anything, and she was learning to take that as enough.  

By the time she got to work, the air smelled like wet concrete and burnt espresso.  

The publishing office was quiet, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead.  

She hung her coat, nodded at the receptionist, and tried not to think about the hours waiting for her.  

At her desk, she opened her laptop, the screen glowing too bright.  

Her inbox was a small battlefield of deadlines, edits, and half-finished drafts.  

She sipped her coffee and began sorting through the noise.  

“Morning,” a voice said behind her.  

She turned. Adrian Cole stood there, holding a stack of files like a shield.  

He was the kind of man who looked like he’d been born wearing pressed shirts.  

Precise, quiet, unreadable.  

“Morning,” she said.  

He nodded, already halfway back to his desk.  

Their department had been merged two weeks ago, and now they shared a floor—and a silence that was both comfortable and sharp.  

By noon, the rain had stopped.  

The sky outside the windows was a pale, washed-out blue, the color of unfinished thoughts.  

Clara gathered her notes for a meeting she didn’t want to attend.  

Inside the conference room, the air was stale.  

People talked over each other in voices that sounded like obligation.  

Adrian sat across from her, straight-backed, taking notes like the fate of the world depended on formatting.  

She caught him glancing up once.  

Not long, just enough for her to notice.  

When their eyes met, he looked away first.  

The meeting dragged on.  

Someone made a joke that wasn’t funny; someone else laughed anyway.  

Clara doodled small circles in the margin of her notebook until the page looked like rainfall.  

When it finally ended, she exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for hours.  

Back at her desk, the office felt even quieter than before.  

Mae called around three.  

“Are you alive?”  

“Barely.”  

“Dinner tonight?”  

“Maybe.”  

“That’s not a no.”  

“It’s not a yes either.”  

Mae laughed. “Perfect. I’ll pick the place.”  

After she hung up, Clara looked out the window again.  

The rain had started to fall in thin, uneven lines, catching the light like threads of glass.  

She thought about all the things that used to feel urgent, and how most of them weren’t anymore.  

When she left the office, the streets were slick, the air sharp with sea salt.  

She didn’t open her umbrella.  

The rain wasn’t cruel tonight—it was honest.  

By the time she reached her apartment, her hair was damp, her shoes heavy.  

She dropped her bag by the door and went straight to the window.  

The city lights shimmered through the mist, a blurred orchestra of gold and gray.  

She pressed her palm to the glass.  

The cold met her skin like a pulse.  

She whispered to no one, “It’s okay.”  

It wasn’t an affirmation; it was a truce.  

The rain tapped softly in reply.  

And for the first time in months, she let it.