By the time I stepped out of the car, the sky was that deep indigo shade that only existed for ten minutes before full night. The air smelled like exhaust, roasted plantain, and rain that hadn't come yet. My shoes ached from walking, but my heart… that was heavier.
Isaiah's flat was small, warm, and loud in the way only love can be. The lights were too yellow. The fan in the corner creaked every few minutes. His speakers hummed something jazzy, like he was trying to make the day softer.
I didn't knock. I never did.
"Smells like you didn't burn it this time," I called out as I dropped my bag.
"Excuse you," Isaiah's voice came from the kitchen. "You're welcome for this Michelin-starred jollof rice."
I smiled despite myself and followed the sound of wooden spoons clanking.
He was stirring a pot like it owed him money, in an apron that said 'World's Okayest Chef'. Tall, sharp-featured, sleeves rolled up, eyes tired but bright.
God, I missed him.
"You survived your first day," he said, not looking up.
"Barely," I muttered, sliding into the stool by the kitchen counter.
"You sound surprised."
"I am."
He arched a brow. "You got into Blake & Pierce, Jade. That place doesn't just hire anyone."
"I know," I said. "That's the problem."
He turned the heat down and leaned his elbows on the counter across from me. "Talk."
I stared at my hands.
"Everyone there looks like they've been doing this since birth. The language. The posture. The certainty."
"You've always been the smart one," he said gently.
"That was before. Now I just feel like I'm filling in a space someone more qualified was supposed to take."
His expression softened, and he reached for a bowl. He started serving food like it would anchor me to the moment.
"You always say that," he murmured. "Like being lost is something to apologize for."
"Isn't it?" My voice cracked more than I meant it to. "Isaiah, I'm in this place, with this man who's so… sharp. And the pressure—"
His eyes lifted. "Man?"
Shit. I looked away.
He smirked. "Ah. So there's a man in this Blake & Pierce story."
"It's not like that."
"Mhm."
I sighed. "His name's Mr. Pierce. Technically, I work under him."
"Oh, that sounds very—"
"Don't."
We both laughed. I needed that.
Dinner helped. The food, the rhythm of chewing, the music — all of it helped me feel like someone again.
Until I remembered the note.
I pulled it out of my pocket like it had been burning a hole there all evening.
Isaiah noticed immediately.
"What's that?"
I handed it to him.
He read it once. Twice. Then looked up.
"'You're not invisible, Jade'? Who wrote this?"
"I don't know."
He frowned. "You're sure?"
I nodded. "I found it in my pocket. After the meeting. After I brought him coffee."
He didn't need to ask who him was.
"You think it was Mr. Pierce?"
I shrugged. "I don't know. He doesn't seem like the type to leave notes. He barely even blinks."
"Sometimes it's the quiet ones."
I swallowed hard. "It's probably nothing."
Isaiah didn't answer. Just watched me like he knew better.
That night, I showered and borrowed one of Isaiah's old T-shirts — the one with the faded college logo. I curled up on his couch with a blanket and stared at the ceiling fan creaking above me.
I should've felt safe here. I usually did.
But my chest was tight, and the note sat on the coffee table like it was watching me.
You're not invisible.
Why would someone write that? Why now? Did I seem invisible?
The memory hit me like a slap.
Hospice.
The day before our mother passed, I sat beside her hospital bed. Isaiah had stepped out to speak with the nurse. I held her hand. I watched her chest rise and fall, shallow and slow.
And I whispered — so quietly I hoped she couldn't hear me —
"I don't know who I am without you."
She didn't answer. But her fingers twitched.
Like she knew. Like she saw me anyway.
That memory wrapped around my ribs like a vine.
Tight. Familiar. Choking.
I closed my eyes. I hated this part. The remembering.
But it never really stopped.
I was half-asleep when my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
"Tomorrow. 7:30 a.m. My office. -Pierce"
No greeting. No fluff.
My stomach twisted.
I stared at the screen, wide awake now.
Was this about the note?
Or something else?
I typed a reply.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Still deleted it.
Eventually, I just locked my phone and lay back.
But sleep didn't come.
Only questions.
And the feeling that tomorrow would change everything.