Bound to the triplets

Aria Point Of View Starlight seems to have enveloped the city. There were many different city scapes outside the window on the way there. Brick stores turned into mirrored towers, murals were buried between alleys, and vivid graffiti that seemed to yell against the drab hurry. The engine's steady hum and the traffic's stop-and-go made me think too much. Every red light felt like I was holding my breath, and every green light felt like a little break. I kept gazing at myself in the mirror, trying to see confidence on my face, but all I could see was a subtle flicker of anxiousness. I get out of the rideshare and tilt my head back so that the cold air from the night before can kiss my cheeks. The sun shines through the glass and steel, breaking it into a hundred pieces. Traffic sounds like horns, the angry growl of a motorcycle, and the far, off wail of an ambulance moving through the grid. People move with the clean purpose of a weekday, heels clicking, shoes thudding, and voices clipped and directed. Aromas of freshly roasted hot dogs, espresso, fill the air, with a subtle undercurrent of icy coolness, like air before lightning. I hold the strap of my bag tighter with my fingers. For a split second, I thought I saw someone watching me from across the street, but when I blinked, the spot was empty. Get it together, Aria, don't let your past haunt you, I murmured to myself. A new city. A new life. There is no going back. A delivery truck drives by, and the wind blows my hair across my mouth. I can smell the familiar cherry balm, the only thing I kept when I gave everything else away. The strap rubs against the soft skin under my collarbone. I take a deep breath and count slowly, like the therapist told me to. One, two, three, hold, four, five. I can’t picture the old house. I can’t picture the room with the broken latch. My skin remembers the cold slam of a door that I never want to see again. I am thinking about the email instead. Dear Ms. Wynter, We at Veyric Corp would like to ask you to come in for an interview for the position of Administrative Associate, Special Projects. Projects, special administration. It sounded like every word that means safe. Veyric Corp's tower is a block ahead. It is sleek and somehow older than its age. It looks like a dark mirror with anodized metal. In brushed steel letters, the name VEYRIC floats above the revolving doors. A man in a gray suit walks through them like the building is an extension of his spine. I put my hand on my stomach. Today, a hummingbird is stuck under my ribs and beating itself dizzy. “First day?” my driver had asked earlier, while the radio whispered a morning show and the city unfurled. "Something like that," I replied, because it was simpler than admitting the truth. This is the first day of my new life after everything has changed. I joined the stream headed to the entrance. The revolving door pushes against my hand in a polite way. The lobby's cold air smells like lemon polish, ink, and money. The marble floor features veins that resemble frost. One side of the wall is covered in ferns that are softened by a curtain of water that falls into a long stone trough. There are screens on another wall that show curved line graphs and videos of wind turbines turning over a pale sea. People are everywhere and nowhere at the same time, and all that forward motion turns into a glide. I run my hand down the side of my navy dress. I sewed the seam last night and made the fabric mine again, even though it's not new. It hugs a frame I sometimes forget to appreciate, slender but strong, the result of too many nights running to burn off memories. I see myself in a nearby pane of glass, stormy gray-blue eyes framed by long lashes, a mouth that always looks like it's holding back more words than it lets out, and chestnut waves that fall onto my shoulders and catch a hint of auburn when the light bends just right. Some ways, I look older at twenty-six, and other ways, I look younger. My skin is pale, and there is a slight flush on my cheeks. My age is an accidental truth that I have never been able to hide. I pull my bag strap down to cover the small scar on my left wrist, which I don't want anyone to ask about. Then I push my shoulders back. I look calm. Very strong. But on the inside, I'm a tide. A woman with cat-eye liner and an earpiece sits at the reception desk, which is made of pale wood and shaped like a crescent. She smiles with a calmness that makes people jealous. "Good morning and welcome to Veyric." She says. "Hi, Aria Wynter. I have an Interview at 10 a.m." I replied, thank God my voice is steady. The woman taps a tablet with quick, manicured beats. "Yes, Ms. Wynter. You came a little early. The elevators are behind you to your left and. Talent & Culture" is on the thirty-eighth floor.” She explains. Her eyes dart around, as if she's hearing something I can't, and then they refocus. "A badge will be print for you shortly." A soft pressure at the base of my skull makes something change. It's not a sound, and not a smell, either, but there is a hint of something new in the air. Not perfume. It's getting warmer. Rainy day on Earth. The heat radiates from the stone that has been warmed by the sun. I look to the side. A group of men in charcoal suits comes out of a hallway in a loose triangle, moving in a way that is more wild than polished. People cut their paths without looking. The men don't stop. The one in front turns his head. I can't see his face, all I can see is the sharp line of his jaw and hair that is darker than ink. "Here you go." The receptionist's voice interrupts the unusual tension in the air. A plastic card with my name on it slides across the counter. "Please clip that to your lapel." "Thanks." The warm plastic feels cool against my fingers. I step back, my heels whispering over the marble floor and the metal clip on the badge ticking softly with each step. The hummingbird behind my ribs flutters and can't sit still. The elevators make a soft, confident sound, like chimes and the sound of doors breathing open and shut. A man in a blue tie looks at his watch and sighs. A woman types quickly while holding a laptop on one arm. A glass cylinder near the bank holds a bouquet of lilies. Their clean, waxy smell cuts through the AC's mineral chill. I press the button with the arrow showing up and feel a tiny vibration under my finger. Something is making my forearms tingle. I rub the goosebumps and get mad at myself. Nerves, Aria, don't worry, just keep on breathing. The doors open with a sigh, and we walk into a metal box with smoked mirrors on the walls. My reflection looks taller than usual, with dark lines cutting through it. The light is cool and flattering, and my cheekbones have decided to be pleasing today. I see myself like other people do, calm, professional, and maybe even beautiful if someone looked long enough. But I know the truth behind my own eyes, I'm guarded, restless, and haunted. And then I feel it, the pull. It's not a metaphor. It's a tide in my bones and a thread pulling the empty space behind my heart. I have trouble breathing. The back of my neck hurts. I close my eyes tightly and count. One, two, three, hold. The elevator dings for the 38th floor. When the doors open, I step out into the sun. The floor is quiet, covered in carpet, and has softer lighting. I walk past a waiting room where another candidate is smiling politely, and we exchange names. But I know something has changed even though I'm sitting here trying to look calm. Someone, or something, is pulling me closer. And I don’t yet know whether it will save me, or break me.