The nib of her pen tore through the paper.

Aria stared at the jagged black line splitting the dialogue in half. It was too heavy, too dark—a scar on the clean page. She tried to read the lines again, but the letters swam, refusing to settle into a coherent rhythm. She circled a sentence, crossed it out, then wrote it back in, desperate for the scene to make sense.

It wouldn't. The pacing was off. The friction was missing.

Or maybe the friction was just in the room.

The apartment was too still. Only the faint clink of her mother moving in the kitchen broke the hush, along with the wall clock ticking off seconds she couldn't account for. Normally, a morning like this—coffee, quiet, a fresh script—gave her clarity. Today, it felt like a trap.

Her mind was still stuck on Sunday night. On the glow of her phone screen in the dark.

She hadn't just read the article; she had felt it. Every sentence was a cold finger pressing against a bruise. Anonymous. Brutal. Crafted with the precision of someone who knew exactly where to cut. Her name wasn't there, but the exposure was absolute. It felt like being dragged onto a stage without a script, blinded by lights she hadn't asked for.

Aria set the pen down, pressing her fingertips against the table as if to physically hold herself in place.

Buzz.

The vibration against the glass coffee table sounded like a gunshot. Aria reached for the phone, grateful for any noise that wasn't her own thoughts—until she saw the sender. Lina's Unit.

The work chat pulsed. Chiara posting bulleted lists. Jasper cracking a half-joke. Dev clarifying a file path. Lina steering the ship. The work moved on, relentless and indifferent to the chaos in Aria's chest. She had been gone for two days—a "personal emergency," she'd claimed—and the gap she'd left was already closing over.

I don't vanish, she thought, a spark of resistance flaring. I don't go silent.

Her thumb hovered over the chat list, scrolling past the active threads until it landed on one that had sunk to seventh place.

Reyhaan.

She shouldn't open it. She did anyway. His last message stared back, brief and practical, yet heavy enough to sink the entire conversation.

Don't step out for now. I'll let you know when it's fine.

A command. Or a shield. She couldn't tell the difference anymore. She had wanted to type back, to tell him she wasn't fragile, that she couldn't just hide until the world forgot her. But the words had dissolved before reaching her fingers.

So she had obeyed. And he had gone silent.

That silence wasn't empty; it was a physical weight lodged behind her ribs. She caught herself checking the timestamp, reaching for the phone mid-thought, waiting for a signal that never came. She had grown used to his presence folded into her days—a background rhythm she only noticed now that it was gone. Without it, the melody of her life felt thin. Off-key.

And beneath the silence lay the memory of that night. The half-confessions. The resignation in his voice. The one I like... they already have their heart elsewhere.

The thought was a bruise she couldn't stop pressing.

Another buzz. Lina. Document shared.

Aria tapped it open. A new series. Eight episodes. The same writer whose park scene she had once reshaped—the first script where she had truly left her mark. He had asked for her.

Guilt washed over her, sharp and cold. Two days lost to hiding. Two days of shrinking. That wasn't Aria. She had clawed her way into this industry, carved a space for herself with sleepless nights and stubborn grit. She couldn't let a tabloid rumor strip that away.

"Enough."

The word anchored her. She shoved the chair back—the scrape harsh against the floor—and reached for her bag. The strap caught on the armrest, holding her back for a split second, as if the room itself were conspiring to keep her safe. She yanked it free.

"Aru, where are you going?"

Her mother stood in the doorway, brows drawn, voice soft with that specific, terrifying maternal worry.

Aria bent to tie her shoes, needing the blood to rush to her head, needing the focus. "To the office. I need to be there."

"Is it... safe?"

"I can't stay here," Aria said, straightening. The truth of it steadied her voice. "I have to work."

Her mother didn't argue, though her gaze lingered, heavy with unsaid warnings.

Aria pulled the laces tight, the bite of the string grounding her. She inhaled once, bracing herself, and opened the door.

The air drifted in—humid, alive with trams and bicycle bells. The world hadn't stopped. It was waiting.

She stepped out, chin high. If Reyhaan wouldn't break the silence, she would have to walk through it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The glass doors of Vireo House hissed open, exhaling coffee and printer toner.

It should have been comforting. Instead, the lobby felt too loud, the light too sharp. Every click of her heels on the polished tile sounded like an announcement. She's here. Look.

The receptionist glanced up, surprise flickering into a polite smile. "Aria—hi! I thought you were still on leave."

"Morning." Aria adjusted her bag, forcing her shoulders down. "Just... catching up on things."

She pressed her badge to the scanner. The steady beep was a small victory, but walking into the routine felt like stepping onto a set where everyone knew their lines except her.

The open floor spread out—a landscape of glowing screens and weaving voices. One overhead light flickered, a stubborn, rhythmic buzz that matched the skittering of her pulse. The walk to her desk stretched, elongated by nerves.

"Hey—look who finally returned to the land of the living."

Chiara's grin softened the tease. Dev leaned around his monitor, brow cocked. "We were about to file a missing person report."

"Good thing you came back," Jasper added, tapping his mug. "HR was about to auction off your desk."

Aria's mouth lifted at the corner—muscle memory kicking in. "Guess I cut it close, then."

She slid into her seat near the window, smoothing her hand across the cool laminate. This was her space. Her coordinates.

"Everything okay?" Chiara asked, voice dropping a register.

Aria nodded, powering up her desktop. Icons bloomed on the screen. Folders. Timelines. Order. For a moment, she could breathe.

Buzz.

Her phone vibrating in her bag felt like a threat. She hesitated, then drew it out. Notifications stacked up like warning signs. The outside world, pressing in. She thumbed the switch to silent and set it face down on the desk. A small, firm choice.

Work first.

The script Lina sent was dense, a wall of text. Aria clicked it open. She read, pen scratching quick strokes on her notepad. Trimming fat. Sharpening intent. The friction of graphite on paper was a tether.

Then, her pen hovered.

Two characters circled each other on the page, speaking about everything except the thing that mattered. The subtext was too loud. The hesitation too familiar. For an instant, the dialogue blurred, and she saw Reyhaan's face in the white space—the shadow in his eyes when he hadn't answered her.

Heat flickered through her. She blinked hard, forcing her gaze back to the text, pressing the pen down until the tip nearly snapped. Focus. Fix the scene. Control the narrative.

Around her, the office pulsed. Chiara grumbling at a typo. Dev cursing a corrupted file. Jasper drumming a pencil. The collective noise wrapped around her, a chaotic blanket she pulled tight.

By lunch, the sun washed the break room in unforgiving pale gold.

The space smelled of reheated curry and tomato sauce. Aria sat at the edge of the communal table, listening to the chatter bounce off the walls.

"I'm telling you," Jasper said, leaning back and tossing an apple core hand-to-hand. "It's wild. That blurred girl—people keep saying she could be anyone. Hell—even Aria's posture reminds me of her."

Aria's grip on her sandwich froze.

The room didn't stop, but for her, the audio dropped out. The air thickened, pressing against her ears. Your posture reminds me.

It was a casual observation, a throwaway line. But it felt like a spotlight swinging toward her. Heat pressed behind her ribs. Instinct screamed at her to shift, to slouch, to shield herself.

"Don't start, Jasper," Chiara said, easy and dismissive. "The internet sees a shadow on the wall and claims it's a conspiracy."

The conversation flowed on, harmless again, but the knot inside Aria didn't loosen. She chewed, swallowed, nodded when expected. But the echo remained.

Back at her desk, she let the clutter of notes form a wall. Each line she crossed out became a protest. I am here. I am working. I am real.

But beneath the ink, the doubt lingered—waiting, patient, ready to rise the moment she stopped moving.