Zane almost didn't go to the tech industry gala. In fact, at six o'clock he was still sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall like a man who had forgotten how to move. His suit lay draped over a chair, untouched, his tie hanging from the doorknob like a reminder of the life he was still expected to maintain. He hadn't slept properly in days; he hadn't eaten anything more substantial than coffee and adrenaline. His head felt stuffed with cotton. His chest felt bruised from the inside out. His pulse throbbed like it was trying to claw its way free.
He didn't want to see people. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to perform the version of himself the world still expected. But staying home was worse. Staying home meant sitting alone with the ghosts of her voice, her laugh, her scent, her body pressed against his the last time she let him close. Staying home meant drowning slowly in memories that refused to fade.
