BRIANA MORRIS
When I step into my building, the first person I see is Jonas.
His expression is unreadable—part shock, part disappointment, and something else I can’t quite name. It makes me uncomfortable, like he’s waiting for an explanation I have no obligation to give.
Jonas has always been a friend. Nothing more. Even though I know, deep down, he wishes it were different.
But it’s never gone beyond unspoken assumptions.
"Briana, tell me it’s not true," he says, reaching for my suitcase and pulling me into the small room next to the elevator before I can protest.
"Jonas, what the hell do you think you’re doing?" I snap as he shuts the door behind us.
"I just need to hear it from you." His voice is tight, frustration laced with something dangerously close to hurt. "Is it true?"
I
