Yet I'd chosen to risk everything to prove my worth in that interview. For a job, for a chance, to stop feeling invisible.

And now that legitimate, desperate desire had led me to hurt the only person who treated me like family, to jeopardize everything in one day.

Tears kept falling, slow, until they exhausted themselves.

There wasn't a precise instant they ended: they simply ceased, leaving my face damp, lashes stuck, skin tight from salt.

I stayed there, sprawled on the bed, early afternoon light filtering through half-closed blinds, drawing pale stripes on the floor and bedspread.

My short, irregular breath filled the room like an alien noise, labored.

Then, gradually, the rhythm broke.

My breath grew less labored, slower, broader. Each inhale lasted a second longer, each exhale came with a small hoarse sound from my parched throat. My shoulders, rigid until a moment before, slumped suddenly against the mattress. My eyelids grew heavy, like invisible hands were closing them from outside.

I tried to keep them open for an instant, just time to fix on a stripe of light on the ceiling, but I couldn't.

The pulsing in my ears slowed, grew distant, like a drum fading on the horizon.

I fell asleep like that, without noticing, and the world shut off in soft darkness.

I woke with a start, like sleep had dropped me from a sudden height. I hadn't dreamed anything, just heavy, exhausted darkness. The tears shed had worked like a natural sedative: my body, emptied, had simply shut everything down.

I looked at the banana-shaped clock on the nightstand, the ridiculous gift Samy had given me last Christmas, and read 4:15 PM. I'd slept almost three hours.

Beside the clock, I saw that damn phone of mine. I'd left it there that morning, in a rush and panic.

I grabbed it, turned on the screen, and an involuntary smile escaped my lips.

Thirty-five messages from Amanda, two from Samy.

If I'd brought it with me, I'd have spent hours chatting with them, telling every detail, and probably wouldn't have even opened that white envelope.

Sometimes forced oblivion has its advantages.

I turned my head on the pillow, still face down, and buried my face in the soft fabric for a second, inhaling that familiar home smell, washed cotton, a bit of me.

Then, inevitable, the thought returned to him.

Andrew.

Like a teenager swept by first crush, I opened the browser on the phone and typed his name: Andrew Harrington.

The screen populated immediately: portraits in dark suits, articles on verdicts won, interviews in law magazines, shots from philanthropic events with his mother at his side, always impeccable, always composed.

I clicked the first promising result, a bio on a sector portal like those listing big firm partners with résumés, awards, and some personal notes.

Andrew Harrington, 29. Son of Eleanor Harrington and senior founder Richard Harrington. Graduated summa cum laude from Harvard Law, clerkship at the Supreme Court, youngest partner in firm history. Specialized in high-risk mergers and acquisitions, known for surgical precision and closing billion-dollar deals. Single.

Single.

That word gave me a squeeze in the sternum.

It wasn't enough.

I wanted to see him in action, understand who he was beyond glossy images.

I typed: Andrew Harrington courtroom.

Results popped up: links to public hearing recordings, excerpts from famous trials, even a video of an argument in a hundred-million corporate fraud case.

I clicked the first: 2023 hearing, Harrington against a multinational accused of insider trading.

I saw him.

Standing center courtroom, lanky figure dominating the space without raising his voice, he spoke with controlled timbre, every gesture measured, green eyes fixed on the witness, a gaze that pinned, allowed no escape. He argued with unassailable logic, cited precedents with fluid naturalness, dismantled opposing defenses with precise questions, almost gentle, that sank like knives. He never raised his tone, didn't gesture excessively: it was absolute dominance, intelligence shining in every pause, every syllable.

I stayed mesmerized.

He wasn't just attractive, wasn't just authoritative. He really knew his stuff. That dedication to law, that passion I felt too when studying complex cases, was there, tangible, palpable in every word pronounced with surgical precision.

I closed the video with slightly quickened breath.

Exited the page and tried searching: Andrew Harrington girlfriends.

Older photos appeared: him with famous tennis player Serena Voss, two years ago, on red carpet, posed smiles. Then with brunette doctor Isabella Grant at a medical gala. And the latest, more recent, with a brunette model, described only as "passing flirt."

I observed those images, pulse accelerating strangely.

Maybe he's not gay.

Maybe bisexual.

Or maybe he uses women for the facade, like many in that world.

I thought back to his hands on me, his body pressing with that dominant hunger. It hadn't been tender. It had been raw, like he couldn't hold back.

"Enough," I exclaimed out loud, turning off the phone screen with a quick gesture.

I rose from the bed with a decisive movement, sheets still twisting around my legs.

I stayed standing a moment, dazed by the oblique afternoon light filtering through half-closed blinds.

I instinctively brought my right arm to my face, stuck my nose under the armpit, and inhaled slowly.

Sweat.

That acrid, damp, persistent smell settling on skin after hours of built-up tension, raw nerves, adrenaline keeping you on alert all day.

It wasn't revolting, not entirely.

But it irritated me anyway: a sticky scent insinuating into pores, stubborn not to detach, like an indelible trace of everything I'd endured.

The simplest solution was a shower: hot, prolonged, able to rinse away the day's weight and maybe clear my head.

Or at least try.

I headed to the closet with slow steps, and flung open the doors. Fingers brushed the slightly dusty wood.

I pulled out clothes: soft, slightly baggy sweatpants, a worn tee with a faded band logo I hadn't listened to in ages, and the big towel, thick, rough, always folded in the bottom drawer, ready for these daily emergencies.

I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the shower faucet. Water started cold, then tepid, finally hot: steam rose slowly, thick and enveloping, fogging the mirror and filling the room with humid heat that started melting tense muscles right away.

I shed my underwear, the only garment left after sleep, and tossed them in the dirty laundry basket. Stood naked in front of the condensation-veiled mirror, passed a hand to create a transparent stripe, and observed myself.

My physique had nothing extraordinary: normal shoulders, slim waist but not sculpted, smooth chest, no defined abs or gym-pumped muscles. Just the body of a twenty-five-year-old who'd invested more hours in books than weights. My head, though, was a disaster: an internal critical, relentless voice finding flaws in every line, every curve, every imperfection. A psychologist could write a treatise on it, but I doubt it'd find many readers.

I stepped under the stream.

Hot water hit my nape, slid down my back in scorching rivulets, enveloped my shoulders and chest in a liquid embrace. I closed my eyes, rested my forehead on the cold tiles, the sharp contrast between water's heat and ceramic's chill gave me a pleasant shiver, and for a moment I focused only on breathing.

I took the shampoo, poured a dollop in my palm, and massaged it into my hair with slow circular movements, fingers digging into the scalp. Foam formed right away, thick and scented, and slid down my neck, carrying away the day's cold sweat, makeup residues still resisting on my temples, the smell of lipstick and foundation that still seemed clinging to my skin.

Then I grabbed the neutral body wash, without aggressive fragrance, and spread it on my chest, arms, legs, rubbing with slow, almost ritual gestures. White foam swelled under my hands, slid down my body in warm cascades, washing away the last echo of that day: the suit's contact on skin, the flush on cheeks from tears, the feeling of having been someone else.

Water kept falling, constant, enveloping, erasing everything I could erase with my hands.

I stepped out of the shower refreshed and clean, skin reddened from prolonged steam, hair still dripping wetting my shoulders and chest in cold rivulets.

I took the big towel and ran it through my hair with quick, vigorous movements, rubbing in decisive circles to absorb moisture.

Then, quickly, I dressed: clean underwear, soft sweatpants sliding over legs with a light rustle, tee falling on my still damp torso. Finally, I wrapped the towel around my neck like an improvised scarf, letting it absorb the last drops from hair and warm my nape as I headed to the kitchen.

David was there, alone, lounging on the couch watching a sitcom about nuns running a convent with absurd situations. He looked at me for a few seconds, loaded with everything we hadn't said yet. Then turned back to the screen, like he didn't know where to start.

I went to the fridge, grabbed a cold water bottle, and took a long swig, icy liquid refreshing my parched throat and bringing a bit of clarity.

As I closed the door, David spoke.

"Hey... I wanted to apologize for earlier."

I turned.

"It's fine. Nothing serious happened. Actually, sorry for saying..."

He interrupted me, raising a hand.

"You're right. It's just I don't want to see you end up in serious trouble."

His words were calm, but I felt the weight they carried: real fear, deep worry cracking his voice just a bit. It was brotherly affection, what he couldn't give to the one he'd lost.

I nodded.

Every day I complained about my life, the feeling of spinning in place, of always being one step behind a world seeming made for everyone but me. I felt wrong, insufficient, invisible, like every effort ended in nothing.

But in that moment I understood something I'd always known but never let enter fully.

I had people around who cared about me.

Not a blood family that imposed rules, expectations, and heavy silences.

But a chosen family, built day by day with those who'd decided to stay, despite my messes, despite my fears, despite my lies.

David gestured with his hand toward the couch.

"Come here."

I went around and sat next to him, towel still around my neck, damp hair dripping slightly on the tee.

With my heart in hand, I told him:

"Thanks for worrying so much about me. I really appreciate it. It makes me feel good knowing you're there. Thanks, David."

He placed a hand on my shoulder, a warm, reassuring squeeze, fingers pressing with just the right intensity to transmit his concrete presence, like a silent anchor saying "you're not alone in this mess."

Then he leaned slightly and gave me a light kiss on the forehead, a natural gesture, a big brother's kiss, from someone who protects without big words, without making a scene.

"Hungry? I'll cook you something."

I nodded.

"Tomato pasta?"

"Deal."

David stood, headed to the stove. He was an extraordinary cook, besides his carpenter job, where he spent days shaping wood with steady, precise hands, he was the real home chef, able to turn simple ingredients into dishes that warmed the soul. Another of his qualities making anyone near him lucky.

"David, can I ask you something?"

He made an affirmative sound, a brief grunt while filling the pot with water.

"I want you to answer without moralizing, okay?"

"Okay."

"If out of nowhere you got a chance you've waited for your whole life... would you take it, or let it slip? Even if the only way to grab it was doing something weird, risky?"

It wasn't a justification for what I'd done. I wasn't saying "I'm right." I just wanted him to glimpse what burned inside me: that fierce urgency to grasp something bigger, even if it meant getting hands dirty, even if it meant walking a razor's edge.

David sighed softly, a sound carrying years lived. He understood, I sensed it. He didn't answer right away. He just looked at me, with those eyes that had seen too many irreparable mistakes, and in that silence was already the answer I feared and that, at the same time, warmed me inside.

"I want you to be happy, Matt," he said softly. "But I hope you choose the right path."

"You're always the same," I replied, with a half smile.

In that moment the front door opened: Trick coming back from an outing with a friend (maybe). He passed through the kitchen shrugging off his jacket, looked at us for a second with alarmed air, like fearing another argument, and asked:

"What's the vibe in here?"

David, while dropping the pasta in the now boiling water, replied:

"Relax, Mr. Clean. Everything's chill."

Trick smiled, relieved, dropping his jacket on a chair back.

"Good. Cooking at this hour?"

"Not for me," David answered, stirring the sauce with expert movements.

"For that crazy lawyer."

I laughed again, running the towel through my still-damp hair.

Trick came over to the table and sat down, giving himself a satisfied pat on the sculpted abs under his tight tee.

"I might join the crazy lawyer too. That sauce smells killer."

David narrowed his eyes in a half-ironic smile.

"But don't you have any dignity when it comes to eating? You're a bottomless pit, Trick. Aren't you afraid that gorgeous six-pack of yours turns into nice flabby belly?"

Trick burst out laughing, giving himself more pats on his flat, hard stomach.

"A personal trainer knows how to burn fat, buddy. Besides, David's tomato pasta is the only carb worth sinning for."

I burst out laughing at Trick's joke, a deep, genuine laugh that forced me to lean forward slightly, like my body needed space to expel all the built-up tension.

With his brazen personal trainer vanity, always ready to show off that carved abs to fish for a compliment, and David with his protective instinct, they made the perfect balance for the whirlwind that had swept me up since morning.