Elara wakes the next morning with the vague sense that she has forgotten something.
The feeling doesn't come with urgency. There is no panic, no sudden memory surfacing to explain it. Just a quiet dissonance, like a room left slightly out of order. She lies still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sensation to resolve itself.
It doesn't.
Eventually, habit wins. She gets up.
The routine unfolds as it always does—brush, wash, shower. The mirror reflects her with the same steady honesty as yesterday. Nothing looks different. Nothing feels immediately wrong. Still, as she dresses for work, she catches herself replaying a moment she hadn't meant to keep.
They already knew what you wanted.
She exhales, sharp and quiet, as if shaking the thought loose.
At the law firm, the day begins quickly.
Emails arrive faster than she can sort them. A meeting runs longer than scheduled. A client call requires careful phrasing and even more careful listening. Elara moves through it all smoothly, anchored by familiarity.
She tells herself this is what matters. This is what she understands.
Jonah stops by her desk midmorning, holding two cups of coffee.
"I grabbed an extra," he says, lifting one slightly. "In case you want it."
She hesitates—not because she doesn't want it, but because she's unused to being offered something without having asked first.
"Thank you," she says, accepting it.
"You're welcome." He pauses, then adds, "Yesterday went well, by the way. The way you reframed that call—it helped."
She nods. "I'm glad."
Jonah lingers for a second, as if considering whether to say more, then simply smiles and walks away.
The exchange leaves no mark. And yet, later, she finds herself noticing how rarely such moments happen.
At lunch, she joins a small group in the break area—faces she recognizes from meetings, names she knows well enough to greet. Conversation flows easily enough. Deadlines. Office gossip. A shared complaint about the printer on the third floor.
Someone asks her opinion. She gives it.
Someone else takes the lead afterward.
It's seamless. Almost practiced.
When the day finally ends, Elara packs up with the familiar ache settling between her shoulders. She tells herself she'll go straight home tonight. Skip the café. Break the pattern.
She doesn't.
The café greets her the same way it always does, with warmth and recognition. The barista smiles when she sees her.
"Running late today?"
"Just a little."
"The usual?"
"Yes, please."
She takes her seat, sets her bag down, and reaches for her phone—then stops.
Aiden isn't there.
The realization surprises her more than it should.
She tells herself she wasn't expecting him. There's no reason she would. People don't appear on schedule. She opens her book, forcing herself to focus, but the pages blur slightly.
A few minutes pass. Then ten.
The door opens.
She looks up without meaning to.
It isn't him.
Disappointment flickers, faint and unwelcome. She pushes it away immediately, annoyed with herself. This is ridiculous. One conversation does not become a habit.
She takes a sip of her coffee, grounding herself.
Only then does she notice someone approaching her table.
"Elara?"
She looks up to see one of her coworkers—Mira—from a different department. They've spoken a handful of times, always politely.
"Mind if I join you?" Mira asks.
"Not at all."
They talk. About work, at first. Then about nothing in particular. The conversation is easy, if slightly tentative, like two people testing the weight of shared space.
"I didn't know you came here," Mira says.
"I come often," Elara replies.
Mira smiles. "Figures. It suits you."
Before Elara can ask what that means, the door opens again.
This time, she doesn't look immediately.
She feels it first.
The shift in air. The subtle tightening in her chest.
When she turns, Aiden is standing just inside the café, rain clinging lightly to his jacket. He scans the room—and pauses when he sees her.
Their eyes meet.
Something settles.