The office is quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that lets you think, the kind that forces you to. Every sound feels sharper because of it—the low hum of the air conditioning, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, the muted city noise coming through the glass.
I’m sitting behind my desk, but I haven’t touched anything. Not the files, or the laptop. Not even the phone that’s been lighting up every few minutes with messages I’m not reading. Because none of it matters right now.
Not when my head feels like it’s splitting open. Not when something inside me is breaking, coming back. I lean back in the chair slowly, pressing my fingers against my temples. Breathe, just breathe. That’s what Pierce always says. Ground yourself, don’t force it. Let the mind protect itself.
A bitter laugh almos
