The Morning After

Light drifts into the room and paints one wall a dull yellow gold.

It slips between the curtains, thin and cool and lands on the foot of the bed. I lie there, already awake for a long time. I have not left the bed because my head keeps spinning with too many thoughts. I wait for the rush to slow, but it will not.

Night still clings to the air - yet it feels far away - I have no words for the mix. I still hear his voice in the hall, the low good night, the pause that weighed more than a simple word should.

I turn and look at the sketchbook on the nightstand. I told myself I would not think about him when I woke - yet the book sits there. The drawing from last night - the one he saw - stares back. I almost rip the page out - stop.

The walls of this place now feel known. On the first day I swore the stay was short, a plain deal, a way to stay alive. Yet the silence here has turned intimate.

I stand, shower and twist my hair back. No makeup. No mask. Just my face.

In the kitchen Adrian waits, as always. His shirt sleeves sit rolled above the elbow, his tie is gone and he reads from his tablet. A full mug of coffee rests beside him, cold.

He lifts his eyes when my steps reach the tiles.

“Good morning,” he says.

“Morning.”

I take a glass, fill it with water and keep my gaze away from his.

He watches me. “You slept?”

“Barely.”

“Same.”

Silence returns. The fridge hums in the background.

At last I speak. “About last night.”

He shuts the tablet. “What about it?”

“I do not want things to feel strange.”

“They already do,” he says and a small smile lifts one corner of his mouth.

I smile back - I fail to stop it.

I almost laugh. “You are impossible.”

“I know.”

We both fall silent again.

He stands, walks to the counter, lifts another mug and places it in front of me. “Coffee?”

I glance at the mug - at him. “Black?”

“Of course.”

“You remember that?”

“I remember everything,” he says, flat and plain.

The day is too young for words that heavy. I take the mug, sit and lower my face.

He leans on the counter and watches me. “You have a meeting today?”

“Yes. At the design firm. They want to see my portfolio again.”

He nods. “You will get it.”

“You sound sure.”

“I have cause.”

“Because you pay them?”

His face tightens a little. “I would never do that.”

“I know,” I say, soft. “It was a joke.”

He studies me for a long beat. “Your humor is odd.”

“Side effect of the job.”

He steps nearer, sets his hands on the back of the chair across from me. “You are nervous.”

“I am fine.”

“You always say that when you are not.”

“You always think you know me.”

“I once did.”

“You once knew the girl who still tried to keep everyone happy,” I say. “That girl is gone.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But I like the one who sits here now.”

I go still. “Adrian.”

He lifts one hand, half a sorry gesture. “Forget it. Wrong line.”

I shake my head. “You must stop saying things like that.”

“I did not plan to.”

“Then stop.”

He exhales. “It is not that easy.”

“Then turn it easy.”

He looks at me, truly looks and for a heartbeat I see something in his eyes I have no name for. Then it vanishes.

I drain the coffee, set the mug on the table and rise. “I need to leave.”

."I can drive you."

"That is really not necessary."

"I know. But I'd like to drive you."

I hesitate. "You really do not have to."

"I know that I do not have to, but I want to."

His voice is even, emotionless, but there is something substantial in it that makes it hard to refuse.

"Okay," I say finally. "But do not talk the entire time." I said with a stern look on my face.

"I will try my best.".

The engine is silent. The kind of silence that spreads throughout the car. Traffic keeps getting longer by in the mornings, sunlight glinting off winds.

I stare out the window putting my head outside s bit, reading buildings as if they were words in a language I used to speak and have gotten accustomed to.

Adrian's eyes are fixed on the road. Occasionally, I peep and I see his reflection in the glass his jaw clenched, his mind a thousand miles away.

When we drive up to a red light, he says, "You know, you never told me why you wanted to start designing all over again."

"I needed to do something of my own."

"It was always of your own," he says.

"Not when you're involved," I shoot back.

He glances at me, but doesn't say anything. The light turns green.

I wish I could take it back. Or maybe I don't. Maybe it needed to be said.

When we pull up in front of the building, I unbuckle my seatbelt and open my door.

He speaks before I get out. "Lia."

I glance back.

"You will be okay."

His voice is low, but his tone is absolute. No pretense. Just conviction.

For a moment, I nearly believe that he truly believes me.

"Thank you," I say.

He gives a single nod. "Call when done."

I close the door before I can answer.

Within the office, it all smells like fresh paper and coffee. I submit my portfolio, shake, smile, and act. The words flow off me automatically concepts, ideas, sketches but at the back of my head, I just keep on hearing him tell me again.

You will do great, I believe so much.

Once it's done, I head out and breathe in the cold air. I take a look at my phone. No messages.

For whatever reason it may be, that makes me smile.

I walk to the corner, bought a coffee from the vendor, and sit on a bench cross legged across the street. For the first time in a long time, I do not feel like I am acting, I feel like myself again.

I am me.

And maybe that scares me most that being me again somehow would place me back into him once more .