Mariella stood outside Paul’s condo door, fist hovering, heart hammering like it was trying to commit jailbreak from her ribcage.
Knock. Pause. Knock again.
He opened the door wearing a white shirt and black slacks, still half-dressed from work, expression unreadable. His eyes softened for a second when he saw her, but the warmth didn’t reach all the way.
“Mariella.” Her name sounded like a statement, not a greeting.
“Can we talk?”
He stepped aside. No hug. No kiss. Just space.
The condo smelled like black coffee, paper, and pressure.
Mariella sat on the couch, but she couldn’t stay still. She stood up again, pacing. Her thoughts were a mess, tangled, chaotic, loud.
“Paul, I need, I need your help.”
He closed his laptop slowly, as if bracing for impact.
“It’s Jasmine,” she began.
