(Lyra’s POV)

The morning air hit me like a slap as soon as I stepped outside the hotel. It was sharp, cool, and sobering, so different from the heavy warmth of that room I had just slipped out of. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, trying to quiet the racing in my chest. Every step I took away from the hotel felt shaky, like the ground was reminding me I didn’t belong in that world.

I reached into my clutch to grab my phone, desperate for some kind of anchor, something normal to hold onto. The screen lit up, and my breath caught.

Eight missed calls. All from Zyra.

Guilt surged through me as I quickly pressed the call button. She answered before it even rang once.

“Lyra? Where the hell are you?” Her voice cracked with panic.

I swallowed hard, pressing the phone to my ear as I kept walking down the empty street. “I’m okay, Zy. I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Her voice pitched higher, frantic. “I called you all night! You disappeared! I thought—God, Lyra, I thought something happened to you. Don’t ever do that to me again.”

Her words stabbed at me. She was right to be worried. Even I didn’t know what had happened to me.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my throat tight. “I should have called. I… I wasn’t thinking.”

There was silence on the other end, just her breathing hard, like she was trying to calm herself. Then she spoke again, softer this time. “Where are you now?”

“I’m… on my way home,” I said, glancing around as if saying it out loud might prove it true. “I’ll be okay. I promise.”

“You don’t sound okay.”

“I just need some rest.”

Her sigh came through the line, heavy with both worry and relief. “Text me as soon as you’re home. Please.”

“I will,” I promised, and hung up.

I shoved the phone back into my clutch and tried to focus on the rhythm of my footsteps, on the city slowly waking around me. People were already starting their day—buying coffee, waiting for buses, walking briskly to work. They looked put together, grounded, as if the night before had been just another ordinary evening.

For them, maybe it had been.

But not for me.

I couldn’t shake the memory of him—the way he looked sleeping in that bed, the way he had said my name, like he knew me. My stomach tightened as the question echoed again and again in my mind.

How did he know my name?

I pulled my jacket tighter and kept walking, but the thought followed me like a shadow.

By the time I got home, my legs felt heavy, and my head buzzed with exhaustion. I shut the door behind me and leaned against it for a long moment, eyes closed. My apartment was quiet, too quiet, like it was holding its breath, waiting for me to confess what I had done.

I tossed my clutch on the counter and kicked off my heels, my feet aching with relief. The familiarity of my space should have calmed me—the soft gray couch, the framed photos on the wall, the faint scent of coffee still clinging from yesterday morning. But instead, it all felt off, like I had stepped into a version of my life where I didn’t quite belong anymore.

I walked into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed cold water on my face. Droplets slid down my skin, dripping into the sink, but they couldn’t wash away the heaviness in my chest. I gripped the sides of the counter and stared at my reflection in the mirror.

My eyes looked tired, hollow. My lipstick from last night was smudged, my hair tangled, my skin pale. I looked like someone who had lost control—and I hated it.

“How did this happen?” I whispered to myself, my voice trembling.

I should have curled up on my bed, buried myself in blankets, and let the world blur away. That was what I wanted—to fall apart privately.

But my phone buzzed again, and the screen’s reminder cut into me: 8:30 a.m. – Work.

A groan escaped my throat. Work. Of course. Life didn’t care that my heart felt like it had been flipped inside out.

Dragging myself into my bedroom, I threw open the closet. The sight of neatly hung blouses and pressed slacks mocked me. They belonged to the version of Lyra Calloway who had control, who was polished, who walked into rooms and knew exactly what she was doing.

That wasn’t me this morning.

Still, I forced myself into a navy blouse and black trousers, my hands trembling as I buttoned up. I dabbed concealer under my eyes, tried to smooth my hair into something passable, and painted on the faintest bit of lipstick, though the mirror still reflected exhaustion and chaos underneath.

Every movement felt mechanical, like I was playing dress-up in a skin I didn’t fit anymore. My chest ached with the memory of him—the stranger from last night, his face, his voice, the way he had said my name.

I shoved my feet into flats and grabbed my bag.

At the door, I froze, staring at the keys in my hand. For a moment, the conflict cracked through me so sharply I thought I might split open.

Part of me wanted to stay here, curl up, pretend none of it had happened. But the other part—the one that always demanded control, that refused to let life win—pushed me forward.

Work wouldn’t wait. And maybe if I drowned myself in it, I could bury what happened.

Still, as I stepped outside, locking the door behind me, the thought gnawed at me:

What if I can’t bury this? What if last night follows me everywhere?