CHAPTER 16
1159 Words
(Alexander’s POV)
The apartment is quiet when I wake — the kind of quiet that makes sound feel exaggerated, almost intrusive.
Running water in the pipes. The low hum of the refrigerator. The faint tick of the clock on the wall that I’ve never noticed before.
Morning light seeps through the glass walls, pale and precise, softening nothing. The city below moves in silence — a slow pulse of headlights, early commuters, the occasional siren rising and falling like a breath.
Everything looks exactly as it always does: clean lines, sharp corners, everything in its place. Controlled. Contained.
And yet, something feels off. The air holds a weight it didn’t yesterday.
I move through the familiar spaces — the kitchen, the hallway, the wide expanse of the living room — and for the first time, the silence feels less like peace and more like absence.
I pour coffee into a white cup, the same kind I use every morning. The smell fills the air — bitter, grounding. Normally, that first sip steadies me, pulls my thoughts into order.
Not today.
Today, the taste only reminds me of something softer, sweeter. Cinnamon. Sugar. The warmth of her hands as she passed me the cup yesterday morning.
Frida.
Her name comes like an exhale.
It’s strange how easily the sound of it changes the air in the room. Everything sharp in me — thought, tension, habit — blurs at the edges.
I lean against the counter and look out the window. The city looks perfect from up here, framed by steel and sky. For years, I told myself that this distance was freedom — that being above it all meant I was untouchable.
But now, it feels like I’m watching life happen behind glass.
I finish my coffee and set the cup down carefully, as if the smallest misstep could shatter the fragile calm holding me together.
The morning continues the way it always does. Shower. Suit. Watch. Tie.
Each movement deliberate, exact. Rituals of control.
But beneath the practiced precision, something shifts. It’s not anxiety — it’s awareness. A quiet pulse of energy under the skin, as if the world has tilted just slightly, and I’m trying to find my balance again.
When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I almost don’t recognize the man staring back. His expression isn’t cold — not exactly. There’s softness there. A quiet kind of bewilderment.
I almost laugh at it. One morning, one conversation in a small bakery, and suddenly my reflection looks like someone alive.
I walk to my desk. The surface is immaculate — laptop centered, folders stacked in perfect order. I open one, stare at the columns of numbers, the neat certainty of data.
It should calm me. It always has.
But the lines blur. My eyes unfocus. And all I can see is her — sunlight catching in her hair, flour dusting her sleeve, that cautious smile when I said I was glad I came.
The memory lands like a quiet ache.
I close the folder and sit back.
This shouldn’t matter. It’s nothing. A conversation. A shared morning.
But the truth won’t bend to reason.
She’s there — in every pause between thoughts, in every breath I take.
Maybe it’s because she didn’t look at me like everyone else does. No calculation. No fear. No need to impress. She didn’t shrink beneath the weight of my name or try to use it. She just was.
It’s disarming — to be seen without being evaluated.
I think of her laugh again — unguarded, unstudied. The way it loosened something tight inside me that I hadn’t even realized was bound.
And just like that, the silence around me feels unbearable.
I push away from the desk and start walking. The sound of my footsteps fills the apartment — a rhythm too sharp in the empty space. The rooms are immaculate, everything in order, as if chaos itself is forbidden here.
For years, that discipline has been my armor. But now it feels like a prison.
No scent of sugar, no hum of music, no warmth of another voice. Just silence and the cold gleam of glass.
For the first time, I let myself admit what I’ve always refused to name: it’s lonely.
Not in a tragic way. Not the kind that breaks you. Just a steady, constant absence — the kind you stop noticing until something warm slips into its place and you realize what you’ve been missing.
Yesterday, for a few hours, that emptiness disappeared.
And I can’t stop thinking about it.
I stop by the window again, hands braced against the glass. The city hums below — distant and alive. I used to love this view, the feeling of being above it all. Now it feels sterile. Separate.
A thought rises uninvited: What if she were here?
I imagine her in this space — moving through it with quiet ease, filling the cold edges with warmth. Her laugh softening the corners. The smell of cinnamon replacing the scent of nothing.
The image shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t hurt.
But it does.
I reach for my phone. My thumb hovers over the screen. I could text her — something simple. Thank you for the coffee. I enjoyed seeing you.
But I stop.
It’s not hesitation. It’s instinct.
If I reach too fast, I’ll break whatever fragile honesty exists between us.
She deserves patience.
I set the phone down, the small click of glass on marble echoing through the room.
The light has shifted again — warmer now, gold edging along the windows. It touches everything — the desk, the shelves, the framed photographs that line the wall.
My parents. A few business dinners. Trips that were more strategy than memory.
Not a single photo that feels alive.
Maybe that will change.
The thought comes quietly, but it stays.
I walk to the kitchen again, pour another cup of coffee. The simple act feels different now — slower, deliberate, almost grounding.
Outside, the city wakes fully. Horns. Voices. A rhythm that stretches far beyond my walls. Somewhere down there, she’s unlocking the bakery, tying her apron, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
I picture her smiling as she greets her first customer. The soft glow of morning light spilling across the counter.
The thought pulls a smile from me — unguarded, small, but real.
I don’t know what this is between us, or what it might become.
But for the first time in years, I’m not thinking about control or risk or consequence.
I’m thinking about possibility.
I take another sip of coffee, letting the warmth spread through me. The city gleams beneath the sun — vast, alive, untamed.
And for the first time since I can remember, I don’t feel apart from it.
I feel within it.
The silence isn’t empty anymore. It’s waiting.
And I realize — I’m done standing behind glass, watching life happen.
- Writer
