The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and Jordan and I stepped into the building lobby. It was quiet, just like most early mornings. The lights above flickered gently, and the faint smell of fresh coffee drifted in from a nearby café. Everything looked normal. But inside, nothing felt normal.
We walked side by side in silence. Our steps echoed against the floor as we crossed the marble tiles, heading toward the office. Jordan didn't say anything, and I was thankful for that. I needed space to think. To breathe.
My father's message still echoed in my mind. "If you want to talk, I'm here." It was kind, almost too kind. And that scared me more than if he'd said something cold or distant. Kindness could open wounds you thought were healed.
Jordan reached the door first and held it open for me. "You sure you're okay?" she asked again, her voice low.
I nodded. "I think so. Just… trying to keep moving."
"That's good enough for today," she said gently.
Inside the office, the usual sounds filled the air — typing, phones ringing, quiet conversations. But for me, everything felt slightly off, like I was watching from the outside. My desk was the same as always: a neat stack of papers, a half-drunk water bottle, a sticky note that read "You got this" in my own handwriting.
I sat down, turning on my computer. The screen lit up, and the emails began flooding in. But I couldn't focus. My eyes kept drifting to my phone, waiting for a reply that might never come. A small part of me hoped he wouldn't answer — that it would end there. Another part hoped he would.
Jordan glanced over from her desk. She didn't say anything, but his eyes said enough. I gave him a small smile and turned back to my screen.
An hour passed. Then two. I answered emails, joined a few meetings, and even managed a laugh during a team call. But underneath, the ache still sat quietly in my chest.
Around lunchtime, I stepped outside for some air. The sky was cloudy, and a soft breeze moved through the trees. I walked slowly, letting the wind calm my thoughts. The city around me kept moving — cars honking, people talking, dogs barking. But in that moment, I felt still.
I found a bench near the edge of the park and sat down. I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen. Still no message. I didn't know if I felt disappointed or relieved. Maybe both.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard again. I started typing a new message:
"Why now?"
Then deleted it.
I tried again:
"What made you reach out?"
Deleted that too.
Finally, I put the phone away and just sat there, listening to the world move around me.
"Mind if I sit?" a voice asked gently.
I looked up, startled. It was Jordan, holding two paper cups.
"You followed me?" I asked, half-smiling.
"You're not that hard to find," she said, handing me one of the cups. "Tea. I figured you needed something warm."
"Thanks," I said quietly.
We sat in silence again, sipping tea and watching the leaves dance in the wind.
After a few minutes, I spoke. "I don't know what I want from him. Or if I want anything at all."
"That's okay," Jordan said. "You don't have to figure it all out today."
"I feel like I'm stuck between the past and the future. And I don't know where I belong."
Jordan nodded. "Sometimes the hardest place to be is in between."
I looked down at my hands, curled around the warm cup. "He left, Jordan. He didn't say goodbye. He just… left. And now he wants to talk? Like nothing happened?"
Jordan was quiet for a moment. Then she said softly, "Maybe he knows something happened. Maybe that's why he's trying now."
I shook my head. "It's too late."
"Maybe," she said. "But maybe it's not about being too late. Maybe it's about starting where you are now."
The wind picked up a little, and I pulled my jacket closer. I thought about what he said. Starting now. What would that even look like? Could I forgive him? Did I want to?
"I don't even know who he is anymore," I whispered.
"Then maybe this is a chance to find out," Jordan said. "Not for him. For you."
I looked at him, surprised. "For me?"
He nodded. "You've carried this for so long. Maybe this is a way to finally put it down."
That night, I sat alone in my apartment. The lights were low, and the silence wrapped around me like a blanket. I held my journal in my lap, flipping through the pages again. One page stood out — a drawing of a house, with a small stick figure standing outside it. I remembered drawing it after they left. The little girl in me had wanted them to come back so badly.
I closed the journal and picked up my phone.
There was a new message from him.
"Thank you for replying. I didn't expect you to. I just wanted you to know… I never stopped thinking about you."
Tears welled up in my eyes, but I didn't let them fall. I read the message again and again.
I didn't know what would happen next. I didn't know if I could forgive him, or even if I should. But for the first time, I realized something important.
I had the choice.
I could take my time.
And maybe, one step at a time, I could start healing.
The next day, while we are still at the rooftop, where the wind tugged softly at my coat as I stood beside Jordan, looking down at the city below. Cars moved like toy pieces, the world humming along as if nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Between my father's sudden message and the quiet weight in my chest, I felt like I was standing in the middle of two lives — one I had lived, and one I was still trying to understand.
"We should probably head back," Jordan said gently, brushing his hair out of his face. "Meeting in twenty."
I nodded, still quiet. The breeze felt good, clearing the noise in my head, even if just for a moment.
We turned toward the rooftop door, ready to take the stairs down. Just as Jordan reached for the handle, we both froze.
Voices.
They were coming from the stairwell — two women talking, their heels clicking on the steps as they moved upward. They hadn't seen us yet. We stood still, out of sight, as their voices carried through the thin air.
"Did you hear about Sophie and Aidan Blackthorne?" one said, her voice low but excited.
My breath caught in my chest.
Jordan's eyes darted to mine.
"No way," the other voice replied. "I thought that was just a rumor. You know how people talk around here."
The first woman laughed. "Well, she hasn't exactly been subtle. And have you heard about his office? He's gone. Vanished. Ever since that news about them living in the same roof, three days ago?"
"Three days?"
Jordan's hand tightened slightly on the door handle. My heart pounded.
"They say she's the reason," the first voice continued. "Or at least part of it. Something happened. A fight maybe? Who knows. But she hasn't said a word."
The second woman sighed. "I mean… she's sweet. But come on. Aidan Blackthorne? The guy can owns half the building."
Their voices faded as they continued up, unaware we were just feet away.
When the door finally closed behind them, silence settled again.
I didn't move.
"Sophie…" Jordan's voice was soft, careful. "Are you okay?"
I blinked, unsure how to answer.
My voice came out quieter than I expected. "I haven't seen Aidan in days. Maybe even longer."
"Is what they said true?"
I shook my head quickly. "No. I mean… we had a few conversations. A dinner once. But it was business. Strategy meetings. He asked for my input. That's all."
Jordan looked at me closely. "But did it ever feel like more?"
I hesitated.
Did it?
Aidan Blackthorne was powerful, respected, and always perfectly composed. But there were moments — small ones — when he looked at me like he saw right through the walls I built around myself. When we spoke, he listened. Not just with his ears, but with something deeper.
One night after a long meeting, we shared dinner in the boardroom. Takeout, coffee, and long talks about the future of the company. He asked about my life — where I grew up, what I believed in. I asked nothing in return, because I was too afraid of what I might feel.
But then he disappeared.
No goodbye. No message. Just silence.
"I don't know," I whispered. "I thought we had an understanding. But maybe I was wrong."
Jordan exhaled slowly. "That kind of gossip… it's going to spread fast. You know how people are here."
I nodded, the weight settling into my chest. "I didn't ask for any of this."
"No one ever does," she said gently.
We walked back down in silence, the echoes of that conversation following us like shadows.
Back at my desk, I tried to focus on the spreadsheet in front of me. But my mind was miles away — trapped in that one name:
Aidan Blackthorne.
Powerful. Private. Gone.
I opened my email, hoping for something from him. But there was nothing. The last message between us was over two weeks old.
Subject line: "Meeting Notes – Strategy Phase 3"
I clicked it open again, even though I already knew what it said.
Thanks for the feedback. Let's continue this next week.
There was no next week.
Jordan walked by with a stack of papers, pausing at my desk. "You okay?"
"I don't know," I said honestly. "It's not just the gossip. It's the fact that I don't know what happened. One day he was here, and the next… he wasn't."
She hesitated, then leaned in. "Do you want to know something strange?"
"What?"
"I passed his assistant downstairs earlier. She looked worried. Like something big is going on behind closed doors."
"Is he in trouble?"