I was done. Finished. The world had gnawed at my bones long enough, and I, foolishly mortal, had decided to bite back by slipping silently into the river's cold, uncaring embrace. I stood at the edge of the bridge — the kind that always looks poetic in films but smells of pigeon piss and yesterday's rain. The wind wasn't whispering; it was howling. My fingers curled around the cold metal railing like they were saying their final goodbyes.
Then he appeared.
He didn't exactly burst in like a hero. No. He sort of… appeared. Meek, absurdly meek — like a librarian who'd lost his way into a revolution. Wide-eyed, soft-spoken, and dressed like his mum still picked out his jumpers. He looked like someone who thought the world was still filled with sunshine and roses — and probably composted his teabags.
Just as I leaned forward, ready to vanish into oblivion, he grabbed me.
I screamed, "LET ME GO!"
But he wouldn't. He just wouldn't.
Instead, the fragile idiot started crying.
On my behalf.
Can you imagine? I was the one on the brink of death and yet there he was, sniffling like his puppy had run off with his will to live.
"Y-you can't die," he blurted between hiccups. "Y-you matter."
It was grotesquely sincere.
And I? I felt... shame. Not the loud kind, but the slow, burning sort that starts in your gut and crawls up to your eyes, making them sting. There was a moment — I won't romanticize it — where I thought: If someone like this can cry for me, maybe I ought to stick around just to laugh at him later.
With a sigh heavy enough to make the bridge creak, I told him, "If you want me to live, you better bloody lift me up."
He nodded, determined. Noble. Useless.
He tried. God bless his scrawny soul, he tried. He pulled, he grunted — it felt like being rescued by a wet spaghetti noodle. My legs were dangling, but I realized if I wanted to live, I'd have to rescue myself. So I grabbed the railing, teeth gritted, thighs burning like hell, and dragged myself up with all the grace of a cat escaping a bathtub.
By the time I rolled over onto the pavement, panting and bedraggled, he collapsed beside me, sobbing with relief.
I looked at him, this ridiculous, trembling man-child who had just saved my life by crying loudly and being emotionally inconvenient, and I muttered, "You know... if you were trying to seduce me, that was the worst attempt in human history."
He blinked.
I blinked.
We both started laughing. The kind of laugh that sounds a bit broken. But hey — it wasn't the river.
I sat up on the bridge's edge, hair wind-matted, dignity thoroughly mangled, and looked over at him — this sniveling guardian angel who probably still called his mum on Sundays.
"So…" I said, brushing gravel off my coat, "What's your name, sunshine?"
He blinked, like I'd just asked him to recite Hamlet in Latin.
"M-my name is… Theo. Theo Finch."
Of course it was. Theo Finch. It sounded like a man who drank peppermint tea and apologized to furniture when he bumped into it.
Then, eyes wide like a puppy expecting praise for not peeing on the carpet, he asked, "What's your name?"
I sighed like a queen burdened with peasantry.
"Clara Vale."
I let it hang in the air like perfume — tragic, vaguely poetic, undeniably expensive.
He repeated it softly. Clara Vale. Like it was something you underline in a book.
Then I squinted at him. He was standing like a human question mark.
"Why are you always so... meek?" I asked, waving vaguely at his entire existence. "Try to be a man. Chin up. Back straight. Stick your chest out. Scowl a little. Growl, if you have to. Show the world you're made of something tougher than lukewarm oatmeal."
"Y-yes," he stammered, standing stiffer. "I'll… I'll try to do that."
It was like watching a paper towel try to become a flag. Endearing, pathetic, heroic.
Then came the question I knew was coming.
He looked at me — actually looked — and asked, "Why were you trying to jump into the river?"
And just like that, my face turned to marble.
A pause. Long. Hollow.
I looked away. I could hear the river now. Cruel and constant.
"…None of your business," I said sharply, the words like glass in my mouth.
And I left. Or rather, I stormed off, the way dramatic women do in novels — except I tripped slightly on a loose brick and cursed under my breath, which spoiled the exit a bit.
As I hurried into the night, my business card slipped from my coat — I didn't notice, but he did. Of course he did. Because Theo Finch notices everything.
He picked it up delicately, like it might bite.
On it:
Clara Vale, Executive Consultant.
Black ink, ivory cardstock. Cold, elegant. Like a tombstone with ambition.
He stared at it for a moment, his brows knitting together — not in judgment, but in concern.
And just like that, the poor boy now had two things he didn't know what to do with:
A business card.
And a girl who almost drowned in silence.
HER – That Night
God, I hate how the air feels after you cry. Even when it's someone else doing the crying.
I shouldn't have let him talk. Shouldn't have looked at his face — that ridiculous soft face like he was about to apologize for the moon being too bright.
"Why were you trying to jump?"
I should've slapped him for that. Or thanked him. Or both. But instead I ran like some tragic debutante in a bad French film. And now my goddamn business card is gone.
Ugh. It probably flew straight into a gutter.
Let it.
I don't want him looking me up. I don't want him remembering me.
I'm tired of being remembered.
HIM – That Night
Of all places. Her office. Right above my interview. What kind of joke is that?
I can't stop thinking about her. Not like in some romantic way. It's more like a splinter I can't dig out. The way she looked when I asked… it wasn't anger. It was something worse. Like she turned to stone to keep from shattering.
Her name still sits on my tongue: Clara Vale.
Even the name sounds like it's never been poor.
I should sleep. Interview's at 9:00. My future's apparently parked beneath her empire of cold perfection.
And this stupid card is still in my pocket.
HER – The Next Morning
Great. Forgot my lighter. Coffee's burnt. The intern spilled soy milk on my calendar. My head hurts like I drank wine made of guilt.
I swear if one more intern asks me if I'm okay, I'll push them out a window.
And why do I keep thinking about him? That boy with his trembling lip and his voice like apologizing was a reflex. He probably went home, cried into his pillow, and wrote poetry about "the girl on the bridge."
...He better not show up again.
HIM – That Morning
Suit: wrinkled, slightly too short.
Confidence: hanging by a thread.
Nerves: chewing my insides like unpaid rent.
The building is too clean. I can see my reflection in the glass door and I look like I snuck in from a different tax bracket.
Receptionist: "You're here for the 9 a.m. with Lyon & Mercier?"
Me: "Yes. Interview for the junior analyst role."
She points to the elevators. 29th floor.
I check the business card one more time.
Clara Vale — Executive Consultant.
Vale & Associates — 30th floor.
One floor above me. One floor. She's probably up there right now, sipping something overpriced and judging the rest of us from a height.
I hate how that makes my chest twist.
HER – Mid-Morning
I'm in the elevator.
29. Someone gets in.
Oh no.
No. No way.
It's him.
Wrinkled suit. Same mop of worry-hair. Holding a cheap folder like it's a life raft.
He sees me.
His mouth opens.
I raise a brow like I'm assessing market risk.
"…Hi," he says, voice cracking slightly.
"Shouldn't you be crying somewhere?" I ask.
His face colors, but he doesn't flinch. "Interview."
"Where?"
He glances at the panel. "29."
I smirk. "Of course."
Silence.
Then the elevator dings. 29.
He steps out, but turns.
"You dropped this," he says, holding up the card. "I kept it safe."
I take it without looking at him.
Then — because I'm cruel, and curious — I say, "Chin up. Back straight. Remember what I told you."
He nods. "I did."
And the doors close.
HIM – Minutes After the Interview
Disaster.
I knew it the second I said "pivot table" when I meant "profit ratio."
I knew it when the interviewer blinked twice like I'd spat in her coffee.
I knew it when they said, "We'll be in touch," in the same tone people use to talk about cremations.
God. Idiot. Absolute idiot.
I leave without making eye contact. Shoulders hunched. Back bent. One hand clutching my folder like it might still hold dignity inside.
Out of the glass doors. Past the fake plants and security guards who didn't look up. My lungs burn like I've been holding in breath since birth.
Nice going, Finch.
And now it's raining.
Of course it's raining.
HER – Upstairs, Same Moment
Heels off. Head pounding. My father pacing like a man giving a TED Talk to his own ego.
"He's a good boy. Comes from an excellent family. Hedge fund connections. He's seen the world. You'd be an idiot not to consider him."
I don't even look up. "What was that? Sorry, I don't speak property acquisition."
He scowls. "You're not young forever, Clara."
"Neither are your talking points."
He ignores me and pours himself a glass of something brown and obnoxious. "Just one dinner. One. At least pretend to be interested in a future that isn't... whatever phase you're in."
I stand by the window. Lean on the cold glass. My forehead against the skyline. I need air. Or a fire drill. Or a minor earthquake.
Movement below. Someone running. Lopsided. Wet. Pathetic.
That back. I recognize that slouch. That idiot posture.
I squint.
No way.
It's him. Finch. Running like someone lit his resume on fire and told him to chase it.
His shoulders look heavier than his bag.
He's soaked. Probably failed.
Something in my chest twitches.
HIM – Still Running
Of course I saw the building's reflection as I left. Of course I saw the 30th floor lit up like royalty.
She's probably in there right now, sipping something smug and wondering why poor people look so damp.
I bet she forgot me already. I bet I'll never see her again.
Good.
Good.
...
God, why does that hurt?
HER – Still Watching
He's disappearing into the blur of the street. People don't even look at him. They never do.
And yet — I can't look away.
"Clara?" my father says behind me, annoyed.
I don't answer.
I'm too busy staring at a boy who failed something today, but still kept running.
And somehow, that feels more honest than anything I've seen in years.
HER – That Evening
I don't know what possessed me.
Maybe it was the way my father said "future" like it was a corporate merger. Maybe it was that smug look he gets when he thinks he's won. Or maybe… maybe it was the image of a boy with rain-slicked hair and failure clinging to him like a second skin, still running like the world hadn't killed him yet.
"You know what?" I said, loud and venom-sweet.
He looked up from his glass.
"I do have a boyfriend."
Silence.
Then — "What?"
I squared my shoulders. Looked him dead in the eyes.
"His name is Theo Finch."
He blinked. "Theo who?"
I smiled like a lunatic. "Theo Finch. He's my boyfriend."
The words tasted insane. Like gin poured over dynamite.
"It was love at first sight," I added, daring him to believe it.
He scoffed. "What nonsense are you spouting now, Clara?"
His voice cracked through the air like a whip and startled me. So I did the only logical thing a grown, emotionally repressed woman can do in a corner:
I shouted, "I DO HAVE A BOYFRIEND AND I'LL BRING HIM TO THE SUNDAY FAMILY DINNER."
And I stormed out of the room. My heels stabbed the floor with every step. The marble had never seen such passion.
I reached my office, slammed the door, sat in my chair…
…and let out a sigh so long, so exhausted, so utterly done, I think a plant in the corner died from secondhand despair.
What the hell did I just do?
HIM – Same Time, Elsewhere
Microwave burrito. Socks unmatched. Laptop open to a job search tab full of rejections and question marks.
I stare at the screen.
Maybe I should've lied in the interview. Told them I was born on a spreadsheet and raised by a Bloomberg terminal.
Instead, I talked about how I wanted to help people.
God, I'm an idiot.
I bite into the burrito. It's still frozen in the middle. I deserve this.
Phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
I ignore it.
I burp.
Life is... manageable. Sad, but manageable.
I have no idea — none whatsoever — that in 72 hours, I'm going to be wearing my only blazer to a dinner with people who use the phrase "old money" unironically.
A storm is coming.
And I am blissfully unaware.