The iron gates of Ardenwood slid closed behind Liya's car as evening settled over the district. The streets were immaculate, hushed by design, lined with homes that carried reputations heavier than their walls.
Her house rose at the end of the drive—expansive, faultless, and composed to the point of silence.
Inside, everything waited in its place.
"Welcome home, Miss Liya," the housekeeper said quietly.
"Thank you," Liya replied, offering a polite smile before leaving her shoes by the door.
Her father's voice carried from the dining room. "Liya."
She paused.
"You're late."
"I stayed back on campus," she said evenly.
He didn't look up from his screen. "Campus activities should never interfere with schedules."
She nodded once.
"Sit," he added. "We need to settle something."
What Is Expected
Dinner had been arranged with precision. It remained untouched.
Her father pushed a slim folder across the table. "Internship placements. Three options."
Liya opened it.
Numbers.
Timelines.
Titles.
Each page mapped a future that required discipline and silence in equal measure.
"Decide by Friday," her father said. "These positions lead to permanent offers."
Her fingers lingered on the edge of the folder.
"What if I want time," she asked carefully, "to consider something outside business?"
He finally looked at her—confused, not angry.
"Outside?"
She held his gaze. "Something less predetermined."
His response was calm, practiced. "You have ability. Use it where it counts."
The words were not unkind.
They were final.
Liya inclined her head. "I understand."
But understanding did not ease the pressure building beneath her ribs.
After the Doors Close
Her room welcomed her with quiet—curtains drawn, lights dim, the city reduced to distant points beyond the window.
She crossed to her desk and opened her notebook.
A single sentence waited on the page.
Why does your smile feel like something I misplaced?
Her breath caught.
She didn't remember writing it.
Yet the handwriting was unmistakably hers.
Liya touched the paper, unsettled.
An image surfaced—Zen, laughing easily, unguarded, present in a way that unsettled her.
She closed the notebook.
"This is getting out of hand," she murmured.
Still, the tension remained, quiet but persistent, as if something within her refused to return to rest.
A Line She Crosses Without Meaning To
Her phone vibrated.
Among routine notifications, one image stood out.
Zen—caught mid-celebration, grin wide, holding the results sheet as if it were proof of something only he could see.
Liya stared longer than she meant to.
Then, without deliberation, saved it.
The realization came a second later.
She locked the screen, pulse quickening, and set the phone aside.
"This isn't anything," she told the empty room.
She wasn't claiming him.
She wasn't dreaming.
But the contrast was impossible to ignore.
Zen's world felt open.
Her own narrowed with every decision made on her behalf.
For the first time, the thought surfaced—not loud, not rebellious, but persistent.
What if I choose once?
Liya reopened the notebook.
The sentence waited.
She did not erase it.
Whatever it meant, she wasn't ready to know.
Only that the space between who she was and who she was expected to become had begun to stretch.
And eventually—
something would have to give.