Chapter 7: The Weight of Being Seen
Miran avoided him the next day.
Not because she was afraid—but because she wasn't ready.
Every time footsteps passed near her desk, her body stiffened. Every laugh in the hallway sounded louder than usual. The office felt smaller, as if the walls had moved closer overnight.
She kept her eyes on her screen.
Focus. Just focus.
"You didn't answer."
His voice came from behind her—low, calm, too close.
Miran turned slowly. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Not angry. Not gentle. Just… present.
"I was busy," she said.
He nodded once, as if he expected that answer. "You always are."
That wasn't an accusation. It was an observation.
He leaned against the desk beside her, lowering his voice. "People don't usually stay late unless they're running from something."
Her fingers paused on the keyboard.
"What if they're running toward something?" she asked quietly.
His eyes met hers then—sharp, searching. For a second, she thought he might smile.
Instead, he straightened. "Be careful, Miran. Hope makes people careless."
Before she could reply, he walked away.
The rest of the day passed in fragments. Words on screens blurred. Time slipped strangely, unevenly. When evening came, she realized she was still sitting there—alone again.
But this time, loneliness didn't feel the same.
At home, she opened her notebook.
He sees me, she wrote.
And I don't know whether that scares me… or saves me.
Her phone buzzed.
A message.
Unknown: "Did I push too hard?"
She stared at the words for a long time.
Then, slowly, honestly, she typed back.
Miran: "No. You just reminded me I'm still here."
The reply came almost immediately.
Unknown: "Good. I'd hate to lose you to silence."
Miran closed her eyes.
For the first time, being seen didn't feel like a threat.
It felt like a beginning she couldn't turn away from.