The problem with silence is that it gives your thoughts too much room to move.
All morning, I tried to act normal. I answered emails. Returned two client calls. Even sketched a little. But nothing stuck. My mind kept circling the same question, like a song with no chorus.
What do I wear to a dinner where the man who shattered me might pull out my chair and pretend like we're strangers?
The answer?
Apparently, something that makes it hard for him to pretend.
I stare at my reflection. Soft slip dress. Deep green. Open back. Hair swept into a loose twist. Gloss on my lips. Just enough shimmer on my collarbone. Every detail planned.
I want to look untouchable.
Effortless.
Like he never mattered.
Even though every breath I've taken since that studio night has been laced with him.
Maya FaceTimes me as I finish slipping on my heels.
'Girl… who are you trying to ruin tonight?' she says the second I answer.
I smirk. 'No one. It's just dinner.'
'Please. That dress screams "you should've never let me go."'
I don't respond.
Because she's right.
And I'm tired of lying.
She pauses. Her voice softens.
'You sure you're okay seeing him?'
'I'm not,' I say honestly. 'But I need to.'
Maya nods. 'Then do it your way. Make him feel it. Silently.'
I hang up and grab my bag.
Every step toward Elijah's apartment feels heavier than the last.
At the elevator, my hands shake. Just a little.
I don't know what's going to happen tonight.
But I know this:
If he looks at me like he did in that studio—soft and raw and like I'm the only thing in the room—I won't be able to pretend either.
I take one last breath before the elevator dings.
The doors open.
And I step in.