Page 25 of Push My Buttons

Tonight, it sounds hollow.

I step inside, flipping on the light and immediately doing my usual scan—windows closed, curtains drawn, everything in its place. I exhale slowly, some of the tension easing from my shoulders.

And then I see them.

Flowers. On my kitchen counter.

A massive arrangement of black calla lilies and deep red roses, artfully arranged in a crystal vase I definitely don't own and looks like it cost a month's rent. They dominate the small space, impossibly dark and gleaming in the overhead light.

My blood turns to ice.

Someone has been in my apartment. Someone with a key, or the skills to pick a lock. Someone who knows my taste well enough to choose flowers that are both beautiful and deeply unsettling.

My breath is coming in short, sharp gasps that barely make sound. The flowers sit there like an accusation, like a promise, like a threat.

A small card is propped against the vase. From where I stand, I can’t make out what it says and I don’t want to.

My legs nearly give out. I grab my phone with trembling fingers, ready to contact... who? The police? Once again I wonder what I could even disclose? That someone left me flowers? That they used a name I legally abandoned?

Instead, I grab my backpack from where I dropped it and stuff in the first things I can reach—a change of clothes, my laptop, charger, the emergency cash I keep taped under my dresser drawer. I don't dare approach the flowers to look at the card.

Within minutes, I'm back out the door, locking it behind me even though I know it's pointless. Locks didn't keep them out before. They won't now.

I stand paralyzed in the hallway, my entire body vibrating with fear. I need to go somewhere—anywhere that isn't here.The studio is an option, but it feels too predictable. If they saw me preparing to stream then they might know about Behind the Lens too.

Maya. I need Maya.

I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and text her:Can I come over? Emergency. Please.

Her response is immediate:Of course. You ok? Address is 1422 Westlake, Apt 3B

I don't bother responding. I just run.

The bus ride to Maya's feels endless. Every passenger is a potential threat, every glance in my direction a possible recognition. By the time I reach her building, my hoodie is damp with sweat and my lungs burn from holding my breath too often.

Maya opens the door before I can even knock, her expression shifting from concern to alarm as she takes in my appearance.

"Holy shit, Wren. What happened?" She pulls me inside, locking the door behind us.

Her apartment is small but cozy—colorful tapestries on the walls, plants crowding every windowsill, the scent of incense lingering in the air. Under different circumstances, I'd appreciate how perfectly it fits her personality.

I drop my bag and sink onto her couch, my hands shaking too badly to sign properly. Maya sits beside me, waiting patiently while I try to collect myself.

Finally, I pull out my phone and type:Someone broke into my apartment.

Her eyes widen. "What? Did they take anything?"

I shake my head and type:They left something. Flowers. Black lilies. And they used my real name.

"Your real name? I thought Wren was your real name."

The moment stretches between us. I've never told Maya about my past—about who I really am. She's the closest thing I have to a friend, and I've kept her at arm's length to protect us both.

But now? With flowers in my apartment and a heart pendant in my bag? With my brother's capture splashed across every news outlet? The walls I've built are crumbling, and I'm too exhausted to keep propping them up.

I’ve always been afraid to let people get too close. Not just because I’m scaredforthem—though God knows I am—but because I’m scaredfor me. Because the second you let someone in, you start needing them. You start imagining a future where they stay.

And in my life, staying has never been an option.