UNWRITTEN BUT FELT

The building was taller than any dream she’d dared to have. Sharon Brown stood in front of the DOME headquarters, holding her breath like it might float her up the stairs. Thirty floors of ambition gleamed above her, each pane of glass a mirror reflecting the skyline—and her faint silhouette staring back. Her curly hair was coiled up in the way her mother used to do it before a school recital, pinned with care and a little hope. Her soft brown skin gleamed in the sunlight, flushed with anticipation and sweat, and her lips—painted coral—curved in a confidence she didn’t fully believe in. Her supervisor, Gia Langston, tapped her fingers on her telephone, black nails clicking like castanets. She was three steps in front and never more than five feet behind. You ready, star girl?" Gia said, not looking up. Her voice was a drumbeat of encouragement cloaked in a challenge. Sharon breathed out slowly, misting the glass briefly. "I think so." "No," Gia replied, tucking her phone into her coat. "Try again. Not 'I think so.' You are ready. You're the one with six million followers who got a hundred thousand people to sign a petition with just one video. You're not here by accident." Sharon smiled faintly. “Okay. I’m ready.” “Better.” Gia gave her a wink, then marched toward the doors like she’d built the place herself. Within, the marble floor spread out like a ballroom. Every step resonated like it was history in the making. Background jazz hummed through concealed speakers, the sort of background noise that made everything feel pricey. Plants were dangling from architectural beams, buffed white walls glimmered in natural light, and vertical screens flickered with the word DOVE in tasteful loops. The air had the scent of citrus and eucalyptus, and new possibilities. Sharon took it all in slowly, every breath fighting to find its rhythm. For this wasn't just any building. This was his place of work. Derek Royce. She hadn't seen him in over seventeen years—not since she was a six-year-old girl peeking out from behind her mother's flower stall at the Jefferson Street market. He was nine then, already towering over the others, with skin the color of dusk and a small crooked smile that made her heart skip in ways she couldn't yet understand. Then, he would throw her the marigolds his mother could not sell, and say, "Orange is for joy." She never said goodbye. One day he was there, and the next day he wasn't. Gone to the city, someone said. His father had gotten a political appointment. She'd watched the trucks pull away, holding onto a marigold as though it could keep her anchored to the memory. Yet she remembered him. Each year. Each smile. Each name she never dared to utter. Sharon, breathe," Gia muttered, placing a hand on her elbow as they stepped into the elevator. "You're not here to just smile and nod. You are this campaign. You made the app. You got the users. You built the damn house—now walk through the front door like it's yours. Sharon nodded slightly. "It's just… strange. Being here. It's like… déjà vu. Like when you wake up from a dream, and you almost recall it. Like it was mine once." Gia laughed lightly. "Then perhaps it's time you get down the rest of that dream." The elevator dinged. The top floor opened up in front of them—quiet, sleek, flooded with sunlight and silence. The ceilings were high, the windows higher, stretching from floor to sky like a cathedral of ambition. Soft chairs were arranged in deliberate angles, pale leather and curved steel. A glass conference table gleamed at the center like an altar. And at the far end, he stood. Derek Royce. He was talking to a lady who had on red heels and red lipstick, her body language sharp enough. But Sharon only had eyes for him. He had grown into his jawline. Broad shoulders beneath a black suit that probably cost more than her car. His hair was darker, thick waves slicked back without looking forced. His skin was smooth but firm, a little stubble at his jawline like a whisper of rebellion. And his voice—oh God, his voice—low, gentle, self-assured. It flowed through the room like velvet, although she was only able to make out snatches. He hadn't yet seen her. Sharon muttered under her breath, "Don't stare." But her eyes did not listen. The woman in red turned first. Her smile was precise, professionally cold. “You must be Ms. Brown.” She extended a hand with crimson nails that matched her shoes. “Welcome to DOME. Mr. Royce will see you shortly.” Sharon offered a hand, took hers firmly. "Thank you. It's a pleasure." Gia bent near and whispered under her breath, "That's Talia Crane. Watch her. She doesn't smile unless she's cutting something." Sharon kept her polite smile. Her chest felt tight, like a bird trapped between her ribs. But she smiled anyway, the way you do when you are wearing a suit of armor made of good intentions. Derek turned then. Their eyes met. And for a moment—just one blip in the timeline—it felt like gravity had reversed. Like everything paused and spun. Recognition danced across his face—maybe. Maybe not. He blinked. Once. Twice. Then he stepped forward, hand extended. “Ms. Brown. I’ve heard excellent things about you.” Sharon's heart sank. He didn't recognize her. Of course, he didn’t. Why would he? She was a girl with dusty shoes and wild dreams, hiding behind daisies and marigolds. He was a boy on his way to becoming a name on a building. Nevertheless, her hand touched his. It was warm. Firm. Oddly familiar. Her voice remained composed. "I'm pleased to be here." His smile was polished, practiced. "We're glad to have you." Sharon released gently, not too quickly, not too slowly. A measured fall. She straightened a bit, disregarding the prickling at the back of her eyes, disregarding the small voice that wished to whisper You knew him before he was anything. Talia motioned to a conference room behind darkened glass. "Shall we get started?" Sharon lagged behind the others, but in her mind, the memory played back like a favorite song: A boy who has a crooked smile. A marigold was tucked into her backpack. The smell of morning bread and wet pavement. She whispered under her breath as she moved: "It's okay. I remember enough for the two of us. Inside the boardroom, she sank into the chair Gia motioned toward, crossing her legs and folding her hands to stop the tremor in her fingers. The presentation had already been uploaded to the central screen. Her face—laughing, bold—looped across the slide deck alongside headlines from her grassroots campaign: “#GrowBold — The App That Changed Voter Turnout”. Derek was seated opposite her, two other executives and a tall pitcher of cucumber water flanking him. His face was a mask—polite, professional, buffed to a high corporate gloss. Sharon began to speak. Her voice didn't shake. Not even once. She presented her platform. Her metrics. Her reach. How the app she created was born of frustration and flower petals, and individuals being disregarded. How it provided a voice to communities long marginalized, long ignored. It wasn't about shares or likes, but the effect. She saw his jaw clenched once. It could have been interesting. It could have been memory, crawling up his spine and whispering in a language he'd forgotten. When she finished, the room was quiet a beat too long. Then Derek said, "Your numbers are impressive. But more than that, your voice sends out trust. People don't just follow you. They believe you." Sharon met his gaze. Her heart wanted to leap. But her face was still. "Thank you, Mr. Royce." "Talia will sync with your team on next steps," he said, rising. "Let's get it done." And like that, he was walking away. No spark. No flash of recognition. No marigold moment. Just business. Sharon exhaled softly. Gia whispered, “You nailed it.” "I know," said Sharon, standing up slowly. "But sometimes… I wish it wasn't just about the win." Gia tilted her head. “What’s it about, then?” Sharon gazed down the hall where Derek had vanished. "Sometimes," she whispered, "it's about remembering who you were before they forgot." And with that, she walked into the future—heels clicking like a countdown—glass doors reflecting the girl behind the woman she was becoming.