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Lena

I ’m back at the temp agency. Same beige walls. Same headset. Same god-awful fluorescent lights that make my skin look like it’s been stored in someone’s basement for a year.

Same Marjorie.

Only now, I don’t flinch when I hear her heels.

“You’re still Diane, right?” she asks, halfway to my cubicle. “We’re targeting Midwest retirees this quarter.”

I flash her a smile. “Sure. Diane it is.”

She nods, satisfied, then vanishes back into her managerial swamp, leaving me to wonder if anyone here even notices how strange this is.

God, I used to hate this job.

Now?

It pays the bills.

And for the first time in a long time, the bills aren’t terrifying.

It’s not that I’ve forgotten. Shergar’s still circling like a ghost. The investigators keep calling. I keep answering. They never really get to the question they want to ask— what did you see, and what did you ignore until it was too late?

The journalists stopped pretending they were working on background and started asking me for pull quotes.

Like going on record with yes, I watched it happen would make the world any less awful.

I haven’t said yes.

But I haven’t said no, either.

What’s new is him.

He’s not flashy. He doesn’t throw out lines like “I’ll help you make your dreams come true. ” No over-the-top promises, no job offers tied to what I do or which favors I’m willing to perform. He doesn’t check my LinkedIn under a fake name or ask why I’ve moved three times in two years.

He doesn’t look at me like I’m broken, just between chapters.

He’s steady. Simple. Nice, in the way people forget to be.

And when he texts me, it’s not some mind game or breadcrumb. It’s just:

You left your sweater. I’m holding it hostage until dinner.

Also: you were amazing this morning.

Also also: I think I’m falling for you. No pressure.

I laughed out loud when I read it. At work. Like an idiot.

He says what he means.

He means what he says.

I’m not used to it—could it really be this easy?

But I’m learning.

There’s a coffee shop I stop by most mornings. It’s new—tiny, tucked into the corner of an old building. The barista knows my name. He even remembers how to spell it right.

This morning, I’m waiting for my order when I see her.

Gillian.

Hair longer. Skin pale. Dressed like someone who shops in quiet places. She’s sitting alone, stirring cream into a cup that looks too hot to drink. She’s not looking at anyone. Not reading. She’s just…there.

My heart stops like I’ve seen a ghost, like I’ve been stabbed in the chest and left breathless for a second. I’m frozen, unsure if I want her to see me, but somehow, I need her to.

She doesn’t.

Or maybe she does.

For a second, her eyes drift up. They land near me. Through me.

No recognition.

Just a shift. It’s a flicker. Like she heard a song once, and forgot the words, but the melody stayed lodged in her ribs. She goes back to her coffee. But when my name is called, her head lifts.

Just for a second. Our eyes meet.

I want to walk over. I want to say something. But what would I say?

The ache is sharp, quick, all at once—for her and for everything.

A pain that doesn’t want to leave but can’t figure out how to stay.

My phone buzzes

You still want takeout and bad documentaries? Or should we pretend to be healthy adults and cook?

I exhale. The ache doesn’t go away, but it shifts—less sharp now. I text back:

Surprise me.

I walk out of the shop. Into the morning. Into a day that doesn’t ask for anything but my presence.

The ache doesn’t leave me, but it shifts. It’s not just for her—it’s for everything, all of it. I didn’t save her. Maybe I couldn’t. But I’m here.

He’s waiting.

And maybe that’s enough—for now.