Chapter Text
Piper leaned back in her chair and stretched. Her eyes drifted to her phone. She tapped the screen.
17:45.
Eli would ask why she worked late. He wondered why she went into the office at all.
True. She could edit at home. Smiling, she had told him: I work on my novel at home. It was tempting—the thought of devoting herself solely to her writing. He had made it clear she could—
Sighing, she faintly shook her head. No. The office was important. A structure of her own. Autonomy. Her colleagues. The conversations.
Connection.
Tapping her pen, her gaze unfocused, piercing the distant wall. She saw nothing—only vapour gathering at the periphery, darkening, thickening.
And then—
Something there.
In the shadows.
Her eyes screwed shut.
Just finish the passage. Yes.
Her gaze dropped back to the manuscript. She had lost her place. Her brow furrowed, confused. The page felt unfamiliar—wrong, somehow.
She scanned the text—then a line snagged, securing her attention.
Inefficient. Imprecise. Incorrect.
She drew a line through the words. The pen shook in her grasp. Attempting to steady it, she braced her wrist against the desk.
The tremor persisted.
Her eyes returned to the sentences.
She had a choice. She chose not to act. Therefore, she agreed.
Caustic in their certainty. In their judgement. Her throat tightened painfully.
She dropped the pen.
It rolled, striking her ceramic mug.
She flinched—the sound too sharp, too loud in the small office.
Her hand rose to her chest. She pressed over her heart.
Home.
Enough.
She rose from her chair and retreated from the desk. She grabbed her jacket, slipped it on, and slung her bag over her shoulder. Her hand tightened on the strap as she walked out of her office.
Home.
The thought smoothed the crevices that lingered when she was alone.
Safe with him.
Piper passed the other offices. The light of day was gone—only the spare halos cast by individual lamps remained. Imperfect islands of clarity carved into the darkness.
Her chest tightened.
She exhaled shakily, then forced her breath into something steady.
The main office door—just across the room now.
“Piper, hey.”
Startled, Piper froze.
Silent, she turned. “Thomas. Hi. Sorry, I—I thought I was the last one here.” The knot in her chest loosened just enough to breathe.
He closed the distance, stopping in front of her. “You headin’ home, huh?”
She smiled.
Difficult.
“Yeah.”
“Me too. I’ll walk you out.”
Thomas returned briefly to his office, slung his bag over his shoulder, then held the door as Piper stepped into the hall. She watched him lock it.
Turning to face her, she smiled again.
The same effort.
Then she walked down the hall, veering left—
“You’re taking the stairs?”
“I usually do.”
“Really? Five flights? That’s a lot.”
The assessment unsteadied her. She didn’t like elevators. Small spaces that closed in. That lingered.
She shrugged, forcing another smile. “The elevator, then.”
He smiled, a curt nod.
Satisfied.
Piper followed. He pressed the down button. Her gaze dropped to the carpet. The pattern writhed as her vision blurred.
A chime.
The doors slid open.
Her head snapped up. Thomas stood just inside, holding them.
She stepped in.
The doors slid shut. The elevator began its descent. The air thinned, the space collapsing.
Piper looked up, watching the numbers count down.
Four.
Thomas shifted beside her. She swallowed tightly.
Just breathe.
Three.
Her gaze dropped. From the corner of her vision, his hand—at his side. His thumb rubbing against his index finger, slow, rhythmic.
Her eyes lifted again.
Two.
Her chest burned.
Not enough air.
Ground. Almost.
The doors slid open, and she moved quickly into the open space.
They walked toward the main lobby. The fluorescent lights scalded her vision—blurring, flattening.
Piper looked toward the building’s front doors with anticipation. Outside—the sidewalk, the street. Air. Open space.
Not safe.
Not like this.
The thought arrived, sudden and sharp.
And followed just as swiftly by another.
Her brows furrowed.
Home.
You belong here.
“You okay?”
Piper looked up, meeting Thomas’s gaze. He stood still, his expression edged with measured caution.
“Yes. I’m—just struggling with one of the manuscripts I’m editing. I keep thinking about it.”
His expression eased into a small smile. “I’ve been there. Sometimes you stop making progress and don’t realise it. It usually resolves when you step back.”
She nodded. “Yeah. You’re probably right. Well… I’ll see you Monday—”
“Piper.” He spoke her name with intention as he stepped closer. “I was thinking—how ’bout a drink? As a follow-up to your ideas. It might be easier without the office noise.”
She was aware of his cologne. And the subtle pattern of his tie. He was taller than she realised. She became aware she was holding her breath and exhaled.
Hesitation descended, taut and challenging. Her hand tightened on her bag’s strap. His blue eyes appeared earnest.
She had a choice.
A drink with the new senior editor. An opportunity to discuss the proposals she had been working on. Validation. A single drink. A public space. A chance to just talk.
Talk. Yes, and—
And then—
Her hand rose to her head.
The pain was sharp.
You.
Her eyes squeezed shut.
Belong.
Thomas’s voice drifted, distant now—a faint echo. “You okay?”
Here.
The pain dissolved as the words took shape along her tongue.
“I’m sorry. Some other time. Eli’s expecting me.”
“Of course.” He looked past her for a moment, as if checking something behind her. His expression flattened.
Then his gaze returned to her. A small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Monday, then.”
Piper saw the brief flexion in Thomas’s jaw. She didn’t intend to disappoint him. Still, they could discuss the proposals later. At the office.
As quickly as concern surfaced, it shifted—retreated.
She smiled at him gently, then turned and walked to the doors.
Not concerned.
Only certain.
—
She walked along the sidewalk. The streetlamps caught fragments in the cement—small crystals refracting beneath her boots. Not unlike the stars above.
Beautiful details hidden among the banal.
Smiling to herself, she wished Eli were there. Only he would appreciate such a discovery.
He listened.
His perception moved past the flaw of language—the crude categorisations most people used to approximate understanding. Eli pressed beyond that.
When they met, it was as if she had begun speaking a different language.
He had heard her—seen her—and the delicate shapes of what transpired within her mind.
The roar of the bus engine drew her attention. The 14 pulled in as if responding to a private summons. She smiled to herself as she jogged, making sure she wouldn’t miss it.
Sitting midway down the bus by the window, she watched as downtown Portland receded. They crossed Hawthorne bridge, and eventually her Richmond neighbourhood came into view.
She pressed the bell and walked the rest of the way home. Craftsman-style houses stood along the sidewalks. She admired them as she strolled. Some were tame, many were blessed with quirky paint schemes, plenty of character. Looking up, she marvelled that it wasn’t raining. As she drew close to home she felt increasingly happy, a sense of contentment.
Finally she faced the familiar oak tree. Large and old, the sidewalk had been redone to accommodate its broad trunk. Her hand moved over the dense bark lovingly. Then she turned toward home. The sound of her feet on the wooden porch was comforting. She unlocked the door. The key turned easily.
The door opened, inviting.
She stepped inside—and any remaining tension dissolved.
She hung her jacket and bag. The lights were soft. Always.
From the kitchen came the sounds of movement—a pot clanking, water running.
Industry.
“Pip? Is that you?”
“Yes.” She wandered into the kitchen. “It smells amazing… spaghetti?”
He stirred the sauce, glancing over his shoulder. “Yup.”
“I thought you would’ve eaten by now…”
“And I figured you’d be home earlier.” He paused to taste his sauce. “I was going to take you out. But while I was waiting, I developed a craving.” He shrugged lightly. “Figured you being you, you’d still need to eat when you got home.”
“You figured right.”
“Well, I’m almost done here. Noodles, sauce… and garlic bread with too much butter and too much garlic—the way you love it. The wine’s been breathing. You want to pour us a couple of glasses?”
“Oh yeah.”
Piper retrieved two glasses. As she poured, she admired the table—already set.
“Candles even?”
She finished with the wine, then moved behind Eli as he worked at the stove. Her arms wrapped around his waist.
She leaned in appreciating his warmth and kissed the nape of his neck. “I could get used to this.”
His hand stilled on the spoon, the sauce left unstirred for a moment.
“Go on now, have a seat.”
“I can help—”
“Nope. Be lazy. Enjoy the wine.”
Eli was a good cook. She ate more than she should have. The table was intimate—larger would have fit, but they loved the one they had. Old, hearty wood. Tough as nails, and yet small. She liked to imagine her and Eli growing old together. Still eating at the same table, holding hands across its breadth.
“You want another piece of garlic bread? I’ve got more in the oven—”
She waved him off. “My god. I don’t want to have to roll from here.” She took a sip of her wine. “Thanks for this. This was really great… the timing.”
Eli stood and retrieved the wine, refilling their glasses. He leaned back into his chair, fingers resting on the stem before slowly tracing it back and forth along the table.
He smiled gently. “Timing?”
Piper exhaled, shaking her head. A short laugh. “I don’t know why I said that. Tired, I guess.”
His eyes dropped to his wine for a moment. “You’ve been working late a lot lately. Is it hectic at the office?” His gaze lifted to meet hers. “Getting busier?”
She hadn’t really thought about it. Her eyes drifted across the kitchen as she considered. “No. I mean… I don’t think so.” Her gaze fell to the table. She leaned forward slightly. “I—I’ve been having difficulty focusing lately. She hesitated. “It’s like… I can’t hold onto things the way I should. It’s not like me. I… my mind wanders.”
He took another sip and set the glass down.
“To what, Pip?”
She looked up and shook her head—a small, uncertain movement. Her voice was quiet. “I don’t know. I can’t remember.” She took a breath. “It happened today. And when I tried to focus again… I didn’t recognise the page I’d been working on.”
Silence settled over the kitchen. The candles flickered.
“Pip.”
She looked up at him.
“You’re working too hard. You know that.”
Gentle. Certain.
Her head bowed. “Maybe.”
“You’re an excellent editor. Still, you can’t let it eclipse your real work. You’re a writer. That’s what you are. If you’re going to overwork yourself, it should be for your own work.”
Piper looked up, meeting his gaze. She smiled. “I know what you’re going to say next—”
“Because it’s true,” he said quietly. “We don’t really need the money. I respect your work—but you don’t have to push yourself like this. Not when you already have something more important.”
“I just feel sometimes like I could be doing more. Contributing more?” Her eyes dropped to her wine glass. “The new senior editor invited me out for a drink after work.”
Eli’s gaze remained fixed on her—unblinking.
“It would’ve been a good opportunity to introduce my proposals to the firm.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Her eyes lifted again. “I was already late… my head…” Her brows tightened. “I—I can’t remember exactly.”
“What’s the new editor’s name?”
Her fingers rubbed distractedly at her temple, eyes closed. “Senior. Editor. Thomas.”
“You’re tired. Take a nice shower. Get comfortable. I’ll clean up—”
Her eyes snapped open. She shook her head, lowering her hand. “No. C’mon, you have to let me clean up after all of this.”
He smiled. “Nope. Go on—shower.” He waved her off.
Piper stood, reaching for the plates, but Eli grabbed a kitchen towel and twisted it in his hands. His eyes narrowed, playfully.
“Don’t make me use this.”
—
Piper undressed. Naked, she turned on the water, letting it heat.
She paused on the mat.
Then stepped toward the sink.
Her hands braced on either side as she stared into the basin.
The pull.
The want—need?
To look in the mirror.
A thought, soft. Gentle as a caress.
You don’t need to.
You’re safe.
She continued to stare into the sink. The porcelain—pristine. Pure. Unblemished.
And if you did look—
What?
If you did look, you wouldn’t see anything.
Not that. Never that.
You’re safe.
Her eyes lifted.
She released the sink and straightened.
The scar was pink. A few inches. A diagonal line over her left chest.
Over her heart.
She had never seen it before.
No.
That wasn’t—
Not real.
Her hand rose. The mirror was fogging. One trembling swipe cleared the glass. Her other hand followed—
She could feel it.
The small ridge.
Real.
It’s real.
Stop.
The headache struck like a spike.
Debilitating.
Her hand grabbed the edge of the sink as she stumbled, then collapsed to the floor.
Pain pulsed hot behind her eyes as they squeezed shut. She released the sink, both hands rising desperately to her head.
“Piper?!”
The pain swallowed everything. She was only vaguely aware of Eli as he entered the bathroom.
“I’m here, Piper. It'll be okay.” His voice was calm, firm.
Then she was being lifted—carried, settled onto the bed. Her back arched, resisting him. There was something sinking—swiftly, dangerously. Despite the agony, she longed to reach for it.
“You’re safe. You’re with me.”
She curled into herself, desperate to contain the pain.
“Sshh. Breathe.”
A sharp sting.
A bee—insistent. Burrowing. Burning.
Her body tensed. Her eyes snapped open as she attempted to escape the pain of it. Something that caught the light—a syringe?—a needle glinting briefly before slipping out of certainty. He held her firmly on her back. His eyes met hers. Dark. Observant.
“It’s okay, Piper. Sleep now.”
Fear rippled through her. A cacophony of thoughts that did not align: the scar, the pain, sleep. No, not again—something from within herself. A scream she couldn’t yet fully grasp. She attempted to protest, words that never came.
“That’s it. Good.” His hand gently held her face. She felt the rhythmic stroke of his thumb along her cheek.
Another thought surfaced—fragile, unstable. She was with him. It would be okay. Yes. Safe now… but the idea buckled as she tried to hold it. Desperation. She heard her voice as if in a dream. "No. Please..."
His face became faint, only the darkness of his eyes remained. Insistent. “Sshhh. That’s it.”
Then—
Blur.
The edges of the world fell away. The headache receded. The fear resurrected once more. In the distance it pleaded with her. Still screaming, but so far away—only a whisper now.
Memory? A burning ache at her wrists—metal clinking just out of reach. A voice beyond a wall.
Only you can stop this.
She tried to hold onto one thing—anything—but even that dissolved.
Everything lost its shape.