Life at my tiny studio moves in slow, uneven beats. The moment I shut the door behind me, a silence rushes in like a tide. It's not uncomfortable, just ... dense. My bed is unmade. The sketchpad lies on the floor where I left it, half a drawing still waiting to be finished. I drop my bag by the door and fall into the chair by the window.
It's too early to sleep but too late to find something to do. I pull out my phone, open the browser, and type: The Personas Cafe Instagram.
The page loads instantly. Surprisingly active for a small neighborhood cafe tucked into an alley. Posts every other day. Photos of coffee cups catching the morning light, latte art with subtle captions, and occasional behind-the-scenes shots of pastries being arranged on trays.
The aesthetic is so Noah. Calm tones. Clean lines. Thoughtful composition. It has his fingerprints all over it.
There aren't a lot of followers—just a few hundred—but every post has at least five or six comments. Most are from the same usernames, regulars, I assume. One woman always writes "Good vibes as always." Another says "Ferrin's croissants make my week." It's like a quiet little community. Steady. Loyal.
My thumb hovers over the follow button. But I pause.
I'm still logged in as ... well, me. My main account. Cassian Vale. The one that used to have professional shots, brand collabs, even a few campaign highlights from when I modeled part-time. Now it's filled with hate.
The last post I made—before everything fell apart—still gets fresh comments. Some call me a fraud. Others use harsher words. Direct messages pile up like trash. I stopped reading them a long time ago, but sometimes, when I can't sleep, I look.
So instead of following the cafe account, I log out. It's a small act, but it feels like breathing.
I create a new account. Just one name. I find the available username. No bio. No link. No old photos.
@kn0x
The name looks strange, floating alone like that. But I like how clean it feels. Like a white sheet of paper. A second beginning.
I follow The Personas. Just one follow. One connection.
Still, the girls at the cafe today ... their stares claw at the back of my mind. I keep replaying it, over and over, their surprise morphing into recognition, then into judgment. Like I shouldn't be there. Like they expected me to disappear for good.
I used to have confidence. Not arrogance—at least I hope not—but confidence. When you stand under studio lights for long enough, when your face is edited and printed and spread across billboards in this very city, you start to believe you belong in that space. That people looking at you is a kind of applause.
But now, every glance feels like a bullet.
My chest tightens. The silence of the room suddenly feels louder. I remember the little bottle in the drawer. But it's only sleeping pills. My anxiety meds ran out a while ago, and I haven't had the money to refill them.
I should save. Every cent matters now. No extras. No luxuries. Not even peace of mind.
My hand, acting on its own, unlocks my phone again. Without thinking, I go to contacts. Scroll.
Noah.
I stare at his name for a moment. We spent almost the entire day together. I don't have any real excuse to call him. Nothing new to say.
But I tap it anyway.
The phone rings once.
Twice.
"Hello?" His voice comes through, warm and clear, like coffee in the cold. I freeze. For a second, I consider hanging up. But then I hear him again. "Knox?"
"Yeah," I say, unsure. "Sorry. I just ... didn't know who else to call."
He doesn't laugh. Doesn't question it. Doesn't ask if something's wrong.
"You okay?"
"I don't know," I admit, my voice quieter now. "I'm just ... tired, I guess."
There's a pause. Not an awkward one—just quiet, like he's giving me space to breathe.
"Want me to stay on the line with you for a while?"
That surprises me. I don't know many people who'd offer that.
"You don't have to. I know you're probably busy."
"I've got tea. I'm sitting in my room. It's quiet. I don't mind."
I close my eyes. Lean back in the chair.
We don't say much. He tells me Ferrin once tried to teach him how to make croissants and ended up burning half the dough. I laugh a little. He talks about the playlist he uses for the cafe's mornings, the importance of starting the day with music that doesn't try too hard.
I listen. That's all I do.
I don't even realize I've fallen asleep until I wake up to the faint sound of Noah's voice through the phone, saying my name.
The call has lasted over an hour.
I scramble up, fumbling for the screen. "Sorry, I—"
"It's okay," he says gently. "You sounded like you needed the rest."
I rub my eyes, groggy. The ache in my chest has dulled just a little.
"Why are you being so nice? I'm nobody but a stranger to you."
There's a brief of pause, before he answers, "You were a stranger. Not anymore."
Then something inside me take the control of my tongue. "Then? Are we friends?"
"If you say so, then we're friends."
I can't help but smile. Friend. I used to have so many so-called friends. But now they're gone, vanished like they never existed. So I hope—I really hope—this one will stay.
"Thank you. For staying."
"Anytime. Now rest. Some things are better left as what they are. Don't overthink everything, it just kills you slowly."
I nod, even though he won't see it. "I know."
"You can always do this—calling me. No need a reason. If I'm available, I'll pick up. Now sleep, okay?"
"Good night, Noah."
"Good night, Knox."
I end the call. Put the phone on the desk.
And for the first time in a long while, I sleep without swallowing anything first. But I hope I'm not addicted to this new drug too.