By Monday, the sky had cleared.
Elyndra looked washed and brand new, the kind of morning that made people believe in second chances.
Clara didn’t—at least not yet—but she liked the idea of pretending.
She got to work early. The air inside the building was still cool from the night.
Her desk smelled like coffee and paper, comfort in its simplest form.
Adrian was already there, typing, eyes fixed on the screen.
He didn’t look up when she walked in.
“Morning,” she said.
He nodded. “You’re early.”
“Trying a new lifestyle. It’s called *functioning adult.*”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
She hung her coat and sat down, opening her laptop.
The morning felt quiet in a good way—not awkward, just still.
When she looked up, she caught him glancing at her.
Not staring, just… noticing.
He went back to typing like it never happened.
Mae arrived ten minutes later, humming under her breath.
“Staff meeting at nine,” she said.
“Topic?” Clara asked.
“Budget cuts. So, emotional devastation.”
“Perfect. My specialty.”
By nine, the whole team gathered in the conference room.
The boss talked about “restructuring,” “efficiency,” and “realignment,” which everyone knew meant *less people, more work.*
Clara doodled small squares on her notepad just to stay awake.
When it was over, Adrian said, “I’ll handle the analytics department’s report.”
Clara added, “And I’ll rewrite the client copy.”
Their boss nodded. “Good. You two are a good balance.”
Clara said, “That’s one word for it.”
After the meeting, she walked beside Adrian down the hall.
“So, good balance?” she said.
“I think he meant we don’t kill each other.”
“High praise.”
“Survival-based compliment.”
He smiled—a real one this time.
It caught her off guard.
They passed by the glass wall that looked out over the city.
Below them, people moved like dots in the sunlight, cars sliding through intersections like clockwork.
For a second, it felt like the world had rhythm again.
“Coffee?” he asked suddenly.
She blinked. “Like… now?”
“Yes.”
“You realize it’s our third argument-free conversation in a week.”
“Milestone,” he said. “We should celebrate.”
“With caffeine?”
“Always.”
At the café across the street, the windows were fogged with steam.
She ordered black coffee; he ordered tea.
“Of course you drink tea,” she said.
“It’s predictable.”
“That’s one word for it.”
They found a small table near the window.
Outside, the city glowed faintly gold, the kind of morning that made things look softer than they were.
“So,” she said, “you actually text people now? Or was that one time a miracle?”
“I text when necessary.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
He looked up from his cup. “Do you always hide behind sarcasm?”
“Only when sincerity feels dangerous.”
“Then it must be dangerous a lot.”
“Pretty much daily.”
He smiled again—tiny, almost invisible, but enough to make her heart trip a little.
They sat there for a while, not talking much.
It wasn’t silence, exactly. More like a space where neither needed to fill the air.
When they stood to leave, Adrian said, “Thanks for the company.”
She shrugged. “You mean the human data sample?”
He shook his head. “I meant you.”
For the first time in a long time, Clara didn’t know what to say.
That night, Clara couldn’t sleep.
Not because she was restless, but because her mind kept replaying that single sentence—
*I meant you.*
It wasn’t dramatic. He hadn’t leaned closer or said it with a look that asked for more.
He just said it, simple and unguarded, like he didn’t realize it would stay.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the city humming outside her window.
It wasn’t about liking him—not exactly.
It was the way his presence had started to feel like quiet in a room that used to echo.
By morning, she gave up on pretending to sleep.
The sky was still gray when she reached the office, hair damp from drizzle.
She made coffee, answered a few emails, and tried to focus.
Around ten, Theo slid into the chair beside her.
“So,” he said, “you and Mister Logic have been… spending time together?”
“Define ‘time.’”
“The kind that involves caffeine and unspoken tension.”
“Then no.”
He raised a brow. “Uh-huh.”
She sighed. “We just had coffee.”
“Right. And I go to the gym for the conversation.”
“You hate the gym.”
“Exactly.”
Before she could argue, Mae joined them.
“Clara, are you free tonight?”
“Depends. What for?”
“Poetry reading at the Pierhouse. Come. It’s low pressure, good wine, decent people.”
Theo gasped. “Did you just say ‘decent people’ in this city?”
“Rare species, but they exist.”
Clara hesitated. “I don’t know. It’s been a week.”
“That’s why,” Mae said. “You need to be around words that aren’t in emails.”
That line got her.
“Fine. But if it’s pretentious, I’m leaving.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
The Pierhouse was half-bar, half-bookstore, smelling of rain and old wood.
Soft music played, the kind meant to make you think you’re having an important moment.
People milled around with glasses of wine, pretending not to care how they looked.
Mae waved to someone near the front.
“That’s the host. I used to date him.”
“Of course you did,” Theo said.
Clara smiled despite herself.
She found a seat near the back, the kind that let her observe without being seen.
The readings began.
One poem was about rain, another about the loneliness of furniture, then one about the way people leave.
Some were good, some weren’t, but all of them were trying—earnest in a way she hadn’t seen in a while.
She felt something unclench inside her.
When the event ended, Mae and Theo stayed to chat.
Clara slipped outside for air.
The rain had started again, light and steady.
“Escaping already?” a voice said.
She turned. Adrian stood under the awning, holding a folder, like he’d just come from a meeting.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I was meeting a client next door. Heard bad poetry through the wall.”
“You have excellent timing.”
“I try.”
He stepped closer, but not too close.
“You like this kind of thing?”
“Sometimes. When it feels real.”
He nodded. “That’s rare.”
“Yeah.”
For a moment, they just stood there, the rain between them.
“Want to walk?” he asked.
“In this?”
“It’s just water.”
She smiled. “You’re getting unpredictable.”
“I’m evolving.”
They walked along the waterfront, shoes splashing through shallow puddles.
The air smelled like salt and wet metal.
“I used to think feelings were equations,” he said quietly.
“And now?”
“Now I think they’re closer to sound.”
She looked at him. “Sound?”
“Something you can’t hold. You just listen.”
The streetlight flickered above them.
Her hair was damp again, but she didn’t care.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The silence felt full—not of things unsaid, but of everything finally allowed to exist.
When they reached the corner, she stopped.
“Thanks,” she said.
“For what?”
“For not making everything a calculation.”
He smiled, small and true. “Don’t thank me yet.”
She laughed. “Why not?”
“Because I might mess it up.”
“Good. Makes you human.”
He nodded, eyes warm in the rainlight.
“Goodnight, Clara.”
“Goodnight, Adrian.”
He turned to leave, and she stood there watching until he disappeared around the corner.
For the first time in years, she didn’t feel like a background character in her own life.
She just felt present.
Back home, she wrote one line in her notebook before bed:
*Some connections aren’t made of words. They live in the quiet after them.*
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