Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his home office, visible from the kitchen. Sitting at his desk, already dressed in a fresh suit, head bent over paperwork. The door was open—I could have walked in, said good morning, asked if last night meant what I so desperately needed it to mean. But something stopped me.
Maybe it was the rigid set of his shoulders. Maybe it was the way he didn't look up, didn't acknowledge my presence even though he must have heard me moving around.
Maybe it was the way his expression had already frozen back into that familiar coldness. I stood there like an i***t, coffee growing cold in my hands, waiting for him to notice me. He never did.
The days after were worse than before.
At least before, I'd been invisible. Now I was something shameful he couldn't qu
