"Hah… I'm absolutely spent!"
Trizha's voice was thick with exhaustion, a sharp contrast to the high-energy pop track vibrating through the floorboards.
She stumbled toward the periphery of the ballroom, her white dress rustling as she collapsed into a velvet-backed chair at the edge of the first floor.
She began to fan herself frantically with her hand, her face flushed a deep pink from the sustained exertion of the dance floor.
Nomoro appeared beside her a moment later, moving with a calm, effortless grace that made her irritation flare.
He held out a plastic cup, the sides beaded with condensation from the ice-cold water within.
"Feeling tired yet, or do you have another hour of jumping in you?" Nomoro asked, his voice carrying a hint of a dry smile.
Trizha glared up at him, her chest heaving as she snatched the water. "What does it look like to you, genius? I don't exactly spend my weekends in a mosh pit. Dancing constantly for twenty minutes is a workout—worse if it's a non-stop marathon like that DJ is pushing."
Nomoro simply shrugged, leaning back against a marble pillar. "No one forced you to dance 'constantly,' Trizha. I offered to stop several times, but I suppose you were caught up in the joy of the movement."
He watched her drain half the cup in a single, desperate gulp.
"You dance impressively, though," he remarked quietly.
He couldn't help the slight smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth as he recalled how seamlessly she had adapted to his lead, her movements fluid and rhythmic despite her protests.
"Heh, yeah. Well, I used to spend hours watching dancing tutorial videos online," Trizha admitted, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Mostly for clout, obviously. But sometimes it was practice for school events. Let me tell you—the teachers always choose the most bottom-tier songs for our routines. You have to learn to move well just to make the music sound halfway decent."
Nomoro tilted his head, a genuine look of confusion crossing his features. "School events involve mandatory dancing sessions?"
Trizha looked at him with an expression of pure disbelief, as if he had just told her he'd never seen a tree. "You didn't know that? How can you possibly not know that? It's practically a staple of the curriculum."
"This is honestly the first I've heard of it," Nomoro confessed. "My previous school experiences were… different."
"Really? That's actually impressive," Trizha said, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. "Considering you were moving toe-to-toe with me like a professional earlier. You didn't miss a single step."
"A professional? That's pushing it," Nomoro replied, his gaze drifting back toward the crowded floor. "I was actually a bit nervous dancing with you. I wasn't sure if I could maintain the connection or if I'd end up stepping on your hem. If anyone was moving smoothly, it was you."
Trizha's exhaustion seemed to evaporate, replaced by a mischievous spark.
She leaned forward, a teasing smile spreading across her face as she giggled playfully.
"Ooh? Look at you! Since when did Mister Cat-Eyes learn how to compliment a girl?" She poked his arm with a manicured finger. "What's next? Are you going to tell me you like me?"
"Not a chance," Nomoro shot back instantly, his tone flat but his eyes glinting with amusement. "Don't push your luck, Trizha."
Trizha let out a loud, genuine laugh, the sound ringing out over the ambient noise of the party.
She found his ability to shut down her ego with such surgical precision endlessly entertaining.
Slowly, her laughter subsided, leaving a soft, lingering smile in its wake.
She turned her gaze away from him, looking out toward the grand horizon of the ballroom.
She took in the scene: the gleaming lights of the chandeliers, the rhythmic sway of the crowd, the distant clatter of the kitchen where the chefs were still battling the clock, and the thumping bass that seemed to vibrate in her very bones.
Everything felt right.
It felt perfect.
And yet, a cold, persistent knot remained in her stomach.
"Hey, Nomoro," she said, her voice dropping into a more serious register. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure. Go ahead," he said, sensing the shift in her mood.
"The 'Conflict'... it's over now, right? It truly is?"
"Yeah. It ended the moment I came to find you," Nomoro replied firmly.
"Then tell me—why do I still feel so uneasy?"
Trizha looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting in the fabric of her dress. "Why do I feel like I still need to... do something? I'm trying to act like I'm fine, but the discomfort is just sitting there, right under the surface."
Nomoro didn't look at her; instead, he followed her gaze to the dancers. "The Conflict ended, Trizha. That much is true. But that was only the end of my conflict. Not yours."
He turned to face her then, his expression becoming clinical and emotionless—the look of a man providing a necessary, if painful, diagnosis.
"You don't feel uneasy around me anymore because I finished what I had to do. I stopped carrying the burden of an apology I hadn't given, and I addressed the part of the problem I created. You acknowledged it, and that closed the loop for me. But that didn't mean your own internal battle reached a conclusion. You're uneasy because there is still a massive uncertainty hanging over your head—an uncertainty you've been avoiding."
Nomoro leaned his back against the cool marble of the pillar and crossed his arms.
He took a slow sip from a second cup of water, allowing the silence to stretch between them for a moment.
"To finish is to end it, and to end it is to finish it," he continued, his voice steady. "If you leave a thread hanging, it will always pull at you. If you can't finish the thing that is bugging you, how can you expect it to end?"
Trizha stared back at the horizon of the party, her face becoming a mask of quiet contemplation.
The uncertainty was there, visible in the slight furrow of her brow, but it wasn't paralyzing her anymore.
She felt the weight of his words, realizing he was handing her the final piece of the puzzle.
"Then what do you suppose I should do?" she asked in a low tone.
"It's simple," Nomoro said, pushing off the pillar. "Finish what you started. My conflict ended with me. Now, it's your turn to end yours."
Trizha remained silent for a long beat, an idea finally flickering into existence in the back of her mind.
She gave a single, sharp nod—a gesture of acceptance.
"I see. Alright then." She stood up, smoothing out the white silk of her dress.
She turned to face Nomoro, her expression soft but determined. "Nomoro… I need to walk around for a bit. Alone. Can you stay here for me? I won't be long, I promise."
Nomoro looked at her for a moment, seeing the clarity in her purple eyes.
He nodded silently, offering her his silent trust.
Trizha turned and began to weave through the crowd.
She walked past the dancers, past the laughing groups of friends, and past the students heading for the upper floors to find more private corners.
She didn't head for the higher levels; instead, she sought out a secluded balcony nook that overlooked the hotel grounds, away from the prying eyes of her peers.
She stood there for a long time, the cool night air hitting her skin.
Finally, she reached into the hidden pocket of her dress and pulled out her phone.
For months, this device had been her shield and her weapon—the key to the carefully constructed lie of her life.
She tapped the screen, bypassed her security code, and opened her messaging app.
She looked back out at the horizon.
The view was breathtaking—the distant lights of the hotel reflecting in the dark water, the moon hanging high and silver above the trees.
It was a beauty she would usually try to compare herself to, but tonight, that felt hollow.
She was done with the facade.
She was done with the old lies and the forced pretenses.
She didn't want to run anymore.
She had been given an opportunity to repair the bridges she had burned with her own hands, and she wasn't going to blow it this time.
She wanted to move on—not by ignoring the past, but by finally acknowledging it.
The lights reflected in her purple eyes, shimmering like the stars above.
It was a moment of absolute, quiet beauty.
She lifted her phone, turning the camera toward the moonlit horizon.
She pressed the shutter button, capturing the stillness of the night and converting it into a single, digital image.
She didn't post it to her social media.
She didn't tag it for clout.
Instead, she selected a single contact and hit send.
…and the picture went to Wyne.