Chapter Text
The wind doesn’t care that I’m here.
Neither does the world. I figured that out a long time ago.
It’s the kind of cold that settles under your skin—not sharp enough to sting, just… dull. Familiar. Like the way people’s eyes slide past me on sidewalks. Like silence in a crowded room. Like how the world pretends you don’t exist until you disappear for good.
I’m standing on this bridge, fingers curled around the railing. It's chipped, rust-stained, sticky with the faint smell of old metal and exhaust. Below me, the river reflects the city lights in broken lines. Pretty, in a way. Shattered things always seem to catch the light better. I wonder if I will, too.
My name is Aven Vale.
Not that it matters. No one calls me by it unless it’s to mark attendance or remind me I’ve been forgotten again. Sometimes I hear it in my own head and it sounds like someone else.
The cars below sound muffled, distant. People pass behind me on the sidewalk, but no one really looks. I could be a shadow or a lamppost for all they care. I breathe in the cold and let it settle in my lungs. It doesn’t burn. I wish it did.
My coat is thin, and the zipper's broken. I pull it tighter anyway, more out of habit than anything else. The stillness tonight is eerie—not peaceful, just hollow. Like a stage after the show is over.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it. There’s no one left who would call me for a reason that matters. Just reminders—bills, shift changes, people pretending to care. I already silenced everything important.
Except one thing.
The pinned notification from Love and Deepspace is still there. Of course it is.
I swipe it open. Not because I want to, but because it’s automatic now—like breathing.
The soft theme music plays. God, it hurts. It really hurts. It’s the only sound lately that feels like it sees me.
Five men appear on the screen, backlit by stars, smiling like they know me. Fictional. Digital. Designed to fall in love with someone else. But they looked at me when no one else did. They said the things I’ve never heard in real life. Things like you matter, you’re not alone, I see you.
I finished the last route yesterday, Sylus' and Zayne’s newest story. After that, I just sat on the floor. Lights off. Arms around my knees. Empty.
Today, I woke up knowing I didn’t want to do it again.
"Thank you," I whisper. It's not dramatic. Not poetic. Just honest. That game… those voices… they gave me something. Not enough to fix me. But enough to keep me here for a while.
I close the app.
Lock the screen.
Place the phone gently on the edge of the bridge beside me, like an offering. Like a goodbye letter without words.
Then I climb the railing.
It doesn’t feel brave. Or tragic. It feels like exhaling.
I don’t shake. I don’t cry. I don’t look back.
The stars overhead don’t blink.
The wind doesn’t move.
No one calls out.
And for the first time in my life, the silence feels like permission.
So I let go.
╰──────༺♡༻──────╯
Two Days Earlier
The register light flickered above me like it couldn’t decide whether to die or hold on.
Kind of relatable.
I wiped the countertop for the third time in ten minutes, not because it was dirty, but because it gave me something to do with my hands. The smell of burnt espresso and old fryer oil clung to everything—my uniform, my hair, even the skin under my fingernails. No one tells you that depression doesn’t look like tears or screaming into the void. Sometimes it just looks like over-wiping a clean counter while customers pretend you don’t exist.
"Can I get a half-sweet, oat milk, double-shot, no-foam cappuccino?" a woman snapped her order at me without looking up from her phone.
"Sure thing," I said, because that’s what you say. Even when your throat feels like sand and your chest is a locked box of glass.
The barista next to me—Tasha, or maybe Tanya, I could never remember—gave me a pity-smile when the woman walked away. I hated that look. The 'oh honey' look. Like people could sense you breaking but wouldn’t ask.
My manager yelled something from the back about an inventory shipment. I didn’t catch the words, just the tone. Sharp. Dismissive. Like always.
I stared at the order screen. My brain fogged over. I forgot the steps.
Milk. Steam. Pull shots. Cup size.
It was a stupid cappuccino. Why did my hands feel heavy?
"Aven, you good?" someone asked. Maybe Tanya. Maybe God. Didn’t matter.
"Yeah," I lied, forcing a smile. "Just zoning out."
She nodded like she understood. No one ever does.
I made the drink. I gave it to the woman. She didn’t say thank you.
It was just another shift. Just another day where no one noticed I was fading.
I told myself I'd walk home later. Sit in the dark like usual. Maybe open Love and Deepspace, just for a little while. Let someone—anyone—pretend I mattered, even if they weren’t real. Then I’d close the app and stare at the wall until the stillness inside me was louder than the silence outside. And maybe, if I was lucky, I’d sleep. If not, well… I’d just lie there and breathe until morning made me do it all again.
"Order up!" my manager barked again from behind the kitchen window. I flinched, even though I knew it wasn’t really for me. That didn’t stop my heart from jumping like I’d been caught doing something wrong.
I glanced at the clock. Three more hours.
The line surged. A dozen new faces. All of them looked through me like I was glass. I moved automatically—smile, nod, take the order, punch the screen. My jaw ached from clenching. My head pounded beneath the café lights. Everything smelled like desperation and caramel drizzle.
Someone spilled something. Another customer yelled about a wrong order. My manager scolded Tanya for chatting too long. Through it all, I just moved cups, wiped counters, filled syrups.
When I finally took my ten-minute break, I sank into the hard plastic chair in the back hallway like I could dissolve into it. I didn’t even pull out my phone. I just closed my eyes and breathed like I could exhale the weight pressing into my ribs.
When the shift ended, I clocked out in silence. No goodbyes. No see-you-tomorrows. Just the beep of the finger scanner and the door clicking shut behind me.
Outside, it had started to pour. Not just a drizzle or a moody mist, but a full, heavy downpour—like the sky was finally feeling something I couldn’t let out.
Fat drops soaked through my coat in seconds. My hair clung to my face, water sliding down the bridge of my nose like tears I hadn’t cried in years. The sound of it hitting pavement was deafening and still not loud enough to drown out my thoughts.
I stood there a moment, blinking up at the sky like it might offer some sort of answer. The clouds were thick, swollen, heavy with something unsaid. Like me.
But I didn’t break. I didn’t scream or sob or fall to my knees like in the movies. I just kept walking—soaked, exhausted, and invisible.
I tugged my hood up against the rain, not that it helped much. The downpour pelted my shoulders like it was trying to bruise me, like it was asking why I hadn’t broken yet. The world was grey, every streetlight and car headlight smeared behind a curtain of water. I slipped my earbuds in and hit shuffle, letting music drown everything else out—industrial beats, sad synthpop, anything with enough bass to push the thoughts away.
My breath fogged in the cold, catching on the fabric of my jacket. The puddles soaked through my shoes. Every step felt like dragging myself through mud and ghosts.
Halfway home, I felt a familiar tug. My jacket’s zipper, old and cheap, had snagged near the middle. I tried to adjust it with numb fingers, and the whole slider snapped off in my hand.
"Of course," I muttered.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t curse. I just pushed the jacket tighter with both arms and kept walking through the storm like a ghost pretending to be a girl.
My apartment building came into view at the end of the block—a squat, grey thing with flaking paint and windows that stared blankly back at me. Third floor, corner unit. A place that was too quiet and always smelled faintly of damp drywall and whatever my neighbors were reheating at 2 a.m.
No one waited for me there. No lights left on. No voices calling from the kitchen, no pet bounding to greet me at the door.
I used to have a cat. A fat solid gray cat, named Ragnar. He died four winters ago from kidney failure. I couldn’t afford to do anything except hold him and apologize as he went.
Before that, I had a rabbit. Then a fish. All gone. I stopped trying after Ragnar.
The silence inside my apartment used to ache. Now, it just existed—a constant presence like background static. Something you don’t hear until it swells.
I pulled my keys from my bag with hands that barely felt anything and climbed the cracked stairs one at a time, music still pulsing against my ears.
Still soaked. Still invisible.
I stopped outside my apartment door and just stood there, dripping onto the carpet like a leaking pipe someone forgot to fix. My keys felt too heavy in my hand. The music had ended in my ears, but I hadn’t noticed. The hallway was dim, too quiet—the kind of silence that presses in around your ribs and dares you to break it.
There was no one inside waiting for me. No laughter, no footsteps, no warmth behind that door. Just cold walls and an old couch and two bedrooms I barely used. The second one was supposed to be for guests or crafts or something domestic. Instead, it held boxes of things I didn’t have the heart to unpack.
I thought of Ragnar again, of how he used to greet me at the door even if he didn’t move much toward the end. How his motor like purrs had once filled this silence.
Now, even his ghost was gone.
I finally slid the key into the lock and turned it. The door creaked open, releasing a gust of stale air and the familiar emptiness I knew too well.
I stepped inside. Kicked off my shoes. Shut the door behind me.
And the quiet swallowed me whole.
I peeled off my soaked jacket and let it fall in a crumpled heap by the door. The zipper clattered against the tile, useless now. My jeans were plastered to my legs. My socks made that awful squelch as I stepped out of them. Every part of me felt heavy and raw, like I was dragging a storm inside my skin.
I undressed in the hallway without bothering to turn on the lights, making my way to the bathroom where I threw everything into the laundry hamper and stood in front of the mirror for a second too long. My reflection looked ghost-pale in the dim glow from the hallway—wet hair clinging to my cheeks, eyes ringed with shadows. I didn’t look broken. I didn’t look anything.
I changed into an oversized hoodie and threadbare sweatpants. Dry clothes didn’t make me feel any better, but at least I wasn’t freezing anymore.
The living room was dark except for the faint glow of the router lights. I didn’t bother with the main light switch. I knew where everything was. The couch groaned under my weight as I sank into it. It was too small to stretch out on, but I curled into the cushions like I belonged to them anyway.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket. My fingers hesitated.
Then I tapped the screen and opened Love and Deepspace.
The screen faded to white, and then the familiar black lettering appeared: Loading... 0%... 7%... 21%... 43%... My eyes followed the numbers without thinking. 67%... 82%... 99%...
100%.
The first thing I saw was that white chair in the backdrop—the interior of Destiny Cafe bathed in warm, ambient light.
And then he appeared.
Sylus.
Wearing his Magnum Opus 5-Star card outfit—a slate gray sweater that clung just right, light pleated dress pants that made him look like he belonged in some perfect, distant dream. He was casual and cinematic at once, every line of his figure gentle but deliberate.
He looked at me with that lopsided smile that had unraveled me more than once.
"I could've made a lot of things disappear while I was waiting for you," he said softly, voice low and velvet-smooth.
I stared at him a moment longer than I should have. Then, like always, my thumb moved almost on its own. I navigated out of the greeting screen and into the event tab. Caleb's birthday event was still running. I hadn't won the birthday card. I probably wouldn’t.
I sighed through my nose and moved to the Agenda tab. Log-in. Done. Core Hunt. Skipped. Interact with him, complete a Bounty Hunt, upgrade a memory. It was a ritual now. Familiar. Comforting. Empty.
When the checkmarks were filled and the gems and items were collected, I scrolled through the memories archive until I found it.
Valleydream Bloom.
I tapped the icon and let the scene unfold. His voice came through the speakers in a hush, low and warm like embers.
A mountain breeze. Late spring. That sweater again.
"This is the perfect place for dragon tales," he started off saying onscreen, the camera just barely swaying like the breath of wind between them.
I clutched the phone that much tighter.
His voice continued to thread through the stillness of my apartment, filling it with something that wasn’t noise. The screen softened—the wildflowers swaying in slow motion, a golden hue kissing the edges of Sylus’s expression.
"If a dragon knows it will die soon," he said, gaze flickering down to something just offscreen, "It flies to a valley far from its kin and waits alone."
The wind rustled through his hair in the video. His smile didn’t seem programmed. It seemed… tired. Kind.
I already knew the lines. I had looked them up once on the fan wiki. This card, Valleydream Bloom, wasn’t about grandeur. It was about peace. About quiet, grounded things.
The scene shifted—flowers blooming through sun-bleached bones, the vast skeleton of a dragon resting beneath an open sky. Sylus moved slowly through the overgrown grave, reverent, the petals brushing his hands like memories.
"If a dragon knows it will die soon," he said, voice low, "it flies to a valley far from its kin and waits alone. But even in death, life finds it again."
The screen panned to the nest of blossoms around the dragon’s ribcage. Sylus turned to the camera—turned to her—his smile soft but weighty.
"If every petal could receive this kind of reward..."
He leaned in, brushing a kiss to a pink flower petal that had landed on the MC’s forearm, then another to her cheek.
"Then this dragon will wait every night longing for the wind and petals to arrive."
The music swelled as the sky turned brighter—clouds drifting lazily across soft blue. The final shot was of Sylus kissing her in the center of the dragon’s nest, wildflowers blooming all around them.
My throat tightened. Something deep and aching curled tighter beneath my ribs.
I watched the whole thing through without skipping. Not because I believed in the fantasy—but because for a moment, in a dragon's grave blooming with wildflowers, it felt like someone saw the softest parts of me and didn’t flinch. Like longing was allowed. Like love didn’t have to be earned, just quietly waited for. Even if it came from pixels on a screen, the ache was real.
And that ache was better than nothing.
And tonight, that was enough to keep the worst thoughts waiting at the door.
But I didn’t stop there.
I scrolled back through the archive, fingers hovering before tapping into the others.
Painful Signal — Caleb’s 5-Star memory.
A sterile room bathed in cold overhead light. Caleb sat on the edge of a medical bed, turned away from MC. His shoulders hunched, the soft, broken, "...Stay back" spilling from him like breath he didn’t want to release. Cords and mechanical tubing trailed from a machine beside him. A dispassionate, mechanical voice said, "Repair complete."
He exhaled slowly, not turning around as she approached. “I almost forgot... you never listen to me during times like these.”
When MC stepped closer, he didn’t move—just sighed again. “I didn’t mean to hide it from you. I just didn’t expect you to find out like this.”
She sat beside him and asked, gently, if it hurt.
“I barely feel any pain. Unless it’s under repair. But…” His cybernetic hand lifted, hovering uncertainly. “I can’t even feel you anymore.”
Her fingers wrapped around his.
“I sometimes wish you were always in pain,” her response text said—not cruel, just honest. He looked at her, startled.
And then he took her hand in both of his—his real and synthetic fingers intertwining with hers.
“If that’s what it takes to feel you, I’ll accept it.”
She smiled through the ache and told him she wished, mostly, that his pain could be lessened.
MC stood to leave, and he followed her. His voice cracked.
“It’s even more painful… when you take risks for my sake.”
She turned back. In a blink, she was in his arms, pulling him into a hug he hadn’t expected. He stumbled slightly, arms going around her as if it hurt more not to.
“You’re the only one... who can ease my pain,” he whispered.
And something in me just… broke.
Because I knew what it was to be stitched together by someone’s voice. To hurt quietly, until the only solace was knowing someone would choose your wounds. Not run from them.
My fingers shook as I gripped the phone. That kind of pain? The kind you accept because it’s the only way you can still feel something real?
That was mine too.
And I had no one to say those words to. Or hear them from.
But for a few minutes, through flickering pixels and aching dialogue—I wasn’t the only one.
Outcast’s Voyage — Xavier’s 5-Star memory. A distant forest, pulsing with ominous light. Xavier stood in the heart of it, consumed. His eyes were blank—haunted by something that didn’t belong to him. The forest around him seemed to breathe, its hunger thick in the air. MC gripped his shoulders, her hands trembling as she cupped his face, trying to pull him back.
His eyes flickered. That dull lifelessness cracked open for just a second—light returning. And then he collapsed, her arms barely catching him.
She whispered if he was hurt. He tried to push her away.
“Run,” he told her, voice breaking. “Before it takes you too.”
Her evol flared, desperate, trying to reach him—but it didn’t work. He looked up at her, barely holding on.
“...It’s okay. Starfall Forest… will stop once it has enough power… It will…. I couldn’t… I didn’t protect you before. At least… it chose me this time.”
And then the scene shifted—MC pouring all of herself into Xavier, into the forest. After Xavier called her reckless, he collapsed against her shoulder as the camera panned out slowly, Xavier unconscious in her lap, her power a halo of grief and determination.
I couldn’t hold it together.
My hand covered my mouth, eyes stinging. That desperation—of being the reason someone suffered, of being helpless to stop it—that was mine. That had been my every day growing up. Watching someone unravel and knowing you were the excuse, or the witness. Or worse—the one who couldn’t do anything.
The way she held him. The way she refused to leave.
I wanted someone to stay like that. Even once. Just once.
My body shook with a sob that barely made a sound.
He wasn’t real. But that pain was.
Everlasting Wish— Zayne’s 5-Star memory. The city skyline glittered across the river, fireworks blooming silently in the distance. Zayne stood beside the MC in a red plaid suit, the sparkler in his hand trailing light as he drew a four-leaf clover in the air. The date hadn’t gone as planned—but they were still here, still together.
The scene shifted. They were walking hand in hand along a quiet pier, their steps in sync. The MC turned to him, asking him how the night had made him feel.
Zayne looked up at her, “I don’t want this to end,” he said, the words soft and almost boyish. “And I don’t want to go home.”
He wrapped his arms around her middle, burying his face against her stomach from her higher vantage. “I don’t want to leave you.”
The final shot—MC sitting at the edge of the pier, staring out at the water as Zayne stepped behind her. He reached down, gently lifting her chin. “Wait, there’s still something to say…”
His voice cracked slightly. “I want to spend the next decade with you.” As he leaned in and kissed her.
My chest clenched. The kind of ache that wasn’t pain—just longing, deep and tender. I wrapped my arms around my knees tighter, the warmth of the blanket not enough to fight the chill that bloomed in my ribs.
He hadn’t said it to me—but it felt like someone out there believed I was worth staying for. Worth holding. Worth a future.
And God, that almost broke me.
Sparkling Traces — Rafayel’s 5-Star memory.
The shoreline of Whitesand Bay shimmered in the background, soft waves rolling in under a sky just beginning to melt into dusk. Rafayel walked beside the MC with that effortless charm he always carried, his hands tucked casually in his pockets.
"I'd like to exchange my voucher for every one of your bad moods in the future," he said lightly, but his eyes held something more.
There was a pause. A silence as MC's response texts flit over the screen.
Then he added, softer, "Don't worry. No matter how many there are, I can take them, because... just seeing you smile is enough to brighten my day."
My breath caught. It wasn’t about romance. It was about being carried when you couldn’t carry yourself. About someone choosing your worst days, not just your best.
I pressed the screen like I could hold on to that.
And for a flicker of a moment, I felt a little less unlovable.
Each video ended, but I stayed where I was, curling into the silence like it might hold me tighter if I didn’t move.
Back on the home screen, Sylus still stood—pixel-perfect in that gray sweater and pleated slacks, his silver-white hair falling just right, those crimson eyes seeming to peer past the screen and directly into me.
There was something in his stare that always made me hesitate. Like he saw more than I let on. Like if I spoke, he’d know exactly how hollow I really was.
I stared back.
What was I even doing?
I was so tired of being alone. Of being the afterthought. The girl who smiled so no one would ask why it didn’t reach her eyes.
If only things had been different.
If only someone had stopped me when I needed them to. If only someone had cared enough to pull me back.
But they didn’t.
And now here I was—clinging to pixels and scripted comfort because it was the only thing that didn’t look away.
My fingers hovered over the screen, then fell away into my lap.
╰──────༺♡༻──────╯
I must’ve fallen asleep sitting up. The weight of everything pressed into my spine, my head slumped forward. The cheap throw blanket I’d pulled over my shoulders had slipped halfway to the floor. My phone rested against my chest, screen down, still faintly warm.
Outside, morning didn’t so much arrive as creep in—gray light filtered through rain-streaked windows, just enough to blur the edges of the world. My body ached like I’d been holding tension even in sleep.
But for once, I had the day off. And for a fleeting second, I actually felt it—relief. Not joy. Not peace. Just a soft, empty space where dread usually sat.
I peeled myself off the couch, joints creaking as I stretched. The shower took a while to heat up, the water clunking in the pipes like it resented being summoned. I stepped in anyway, letting the spray hit my face until I could breathe again.
When I got out, I wiped the fog off the mirror and stared. Splotchy skin. Tired eyes. A frame just shy of 5'2", a little pudgy in places that clothes always tried to smooth out. I wasn’t ugly, not exactly—but I wasn’t the kind of girl people looked at twice either.
I ran my hands over my face, then down my arms, grounding myself in the feeling. The morning routine wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine.
And today, at least for now, I had time.
I wandered barefoot into the kitchen and opened the fridge, standing there for a long moment like the light might offer answers. It didn’t. I cobbled together something vaguely resembling breakfast—half a piece of toast, a bruised banana, and the last few swallows of milk from the carton. Pathetic. But it was something.
The kettle clicked off behind me as I reached for a chipped mug when my phone buzzed sharply on the counter.
I jumped, nearly sloshing the water.
My boss’s name lit up the screen.
Anxiety twisted in my gut as I answered. “Hello?”
“Aven? Where are you? You were supposed to be in an hour ago.”
My stomach dropped. “What? No, I—today’s my day off.”
“No, you swapped with Kelsey last week. She said you agreed to cover her shift this morning.”
Ice bloomed in my veins. “I never agreed to that.”
“Well, she says you did. So now we’re short-staffed and scrambling.”
My mouth went dry. I didn’t even have the energy to argue. Of course she did. Of course no one checked.
“I—I’ll be there soon,” I said, throat tight.
“Make it quick.”
The line went dead. I stood there, blinking, toast in one hand, dread curling like smoke through my chest.
Tears burned at the corners of my eyes—unbidden, unwanted. I bit down hard, forcing the breath through my nose, holding it all back like I always did. There wasn’t time. There was never time.
I tossed the toast onto the counter, half-eaten and soggy, then turned and bolted toward the bedroom. My hands moved on autopilot—grabbing my wrinkled uniform off the hook behind the door, my phone, my worn wallet, and the damned jacket with the busted zipper.
Everything felt louder—my heartbeat, the ticking of the kitchen clock, the rain still falling outside.
I shoved my arms into the sleeves, muttering curses as the zipper caught and jammed halfway. I didn’t have time to fix it. Didn’t have time for anything.
The weight settled back over my shoulders before I even made it out the door.
I locked the apartment out of habit, the click of the deadbolt loud in the hush of the hallway. Some part of me scoffed internally—there was nothing in there worth stealing. Just leftovers of a life no one wanted, least of all me.
The stairwell was dim and slightly musty, the kind of place where the lighting always flickered and the paint peeled in corners no one bothered to fix. I trudged down all three flights, the rubber soles of my shoes hitting each step with dull finality. No elevator, of course. Just more stairs and the same old silence.
The rain hadn’t let up.
I pulled my hood up again, even though it barely stayed put anymore, and started toward the café. The usual route. The usual emptiness.
My face stayed neutral, unreadable. A wall. That same quiet complacency people always mistook for being 'fine.' Let them. Let them all keep thinking I was okay.
It was easier that way.
By the time I stepped into the café, damp around the edges and barely holding it together, my manager was already fuming.
"You're late," she snapped before I’d even crossed fully into the lobby. "Again."
My jaw clenched. “I didn’t know I was on today. Kelsey—”
“I don’t care what she said,” my boss cut in, waving a hand as if brushing me off like lint. “It’s your responsibility to double-check. You screw up again and we’ll be having a different conversation—one that ends with you jobless.”
She turned away before I could say anything else, already barking at another employee.
I stood frozen for a beat. The heat in my face wasn’t from embarrassment. It was fury and helplessness and the ache of being treated like a mistake just for existing.
I didn’t cry. I just turned and made my way to the staff room.
My locker was tucked into the back corner—the one people always mistook for the broom cupboard. More than once I’d caught a mop or cleaning supplies shoved inside. No name tag. No one remembered it was mine.
Fitting, really.
I changed quickly, stuffing my things into the cramped metal box, the door creaking on its hinges as I shut it. The moment I stepped back into the front, it was like a switch flipped.
Everything was already a disaster.
Customers were lined up out the door, voices raised, complaints spewing like steam from a boiling kettle. Someone was furious over the foam on their cappuccino. Another was yelling about an order mix-up that hadn’t even been mine.
Behind the counter, the other staff member was dragging their feet, half-wiping down tables and ignoring the growing pile of dirty dishes.
My boss’s eyes found me constantly, like lasers tracking a target. Every small mistake—real or imagined—was another strike. The register glitched. She glared at me. Someone spilled their drink near the cream station. My fault somehow.
Then came the worst part.
The bathroom backed up. The stench wafted into the hallway, sharp and unmistakable. I’d barely started mopping the spill near the pastry case when she snapped her fingers at me.
“Handle the bathroom. Now. And keep the lobby clean while you're at it.”
My hands stilled on the mop.
Was I supposed to be in two places at once?
But I nodded. Because what else was there to do?
I wasn’t allowed to say no.
As I wrung out the mop head with aching hands, something strange happened.
The radio, which usually buzzed in and out with static or played mindless top-forty drivel, suddenly shifted. A soft piano intro filtered through the crackling speakers, delicate and familiar. I froze, recognizing the melody before the vocals even started.
“Till I Meet You.”
It was from the game. Love and Deepspace.
My throat caught. Of all the songs to play in this dump of a café, that one?
For a brief second—barely even a full breath—I felt something lift. Like my heart had remembered it wasn’t always broken. That someone, somewhere, had once said something beautiful to me, even if it was only scripted. Even if it had only ever been pixels and fantasy.
Then the mop bucket tipped over.
Water spread fast across the tiles.
A customer shrieked about slipping.
And my boss’s voice cut through the music like a knife.
“Are you kidding me, Aven? Get it together!”
The weight slammed back down, harder than before. But the song lingered in the background, soft and persistent. Like a voice I couldn’t quite forget.
By the time my break rolled around, my body was screaming for rest, my hands raw from bleach and the mop handle. But instead of retreating to the back room for ten quiet minutes on my phone like I usually did—headphones in, world off—I was handed a plunger and a pair of gloves.
“Bathroom’s still a mess,” my boss said without even looking at me. “Use your break to finish it.”
I wanted to scream. Or cry. Or just curl into the mop closet and not come out.
But I just nodded, teeth clenched.
So instead of hiding in a corner and losing myself in something soft, I spent the entire hour scrubbing floors and trying not to gag from the smell. The door kept opening, coworkers popping in and out without a word, like I wasn’t even there. Like I was just another fixture to ignore.
When I finally emerged, my break long gone and my arms aching, I didn’t even look at the clock. I just walked back behind the counter and resumed taking orders.
Because what else was I supposed to do?
It all unraveled quickly after that.
A customer dumped their drink on the counter and demanded a full refund—never mind that they’d already finished half of it. The espresso machine jammed mid-pour. The other employee took a smoke break and just... didn’t come back. And my boss? She hovered. Always watching. Always judging.
I was juggling too many tasks when a tray slipped from my hands and shattered across the floor—ceramic shards skittering like angry little ghosts. Gasps echoed around the café.
My boss stormed over, red-faced and loud.
“Jesus, Aven! What the hell is wrong with you today?”
Something snapped.
I stared at the mess, breathing heavy, the sharp sting of bile clawing at the back of my throat. My hands trembled. My chest tightened.
And then I stood.
“I’m done,” I whispered, too soft at first. Then louder. “I’m done.”
I untied my apron, dropped it onto the counter, and walked—past the spilled drink, the gaping mouths, the stunned silence.
Out the front door.
Into the rain.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t care who was watching.
I kept walking. Past the café windows, past the flickering streetlamps and shuttered storefronts, my footsteps splashing through puddles like I had somewhere to be. But I didn’t.
I didn’t go home.
I didn’t want to.
The thought of unlocking that empty apartment, peeling off this soaked jacket, sitting back down on that too-small couch with the silence pressing in from all sides—it made my chest constrict.
So I marched. Nowhere in particular. No direction. Just motion. Just away.
Rain poured from the sky in sheets, soaking through what little my jacket still covered. But I didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. My face stayed numb. My thoughts buzzed with the echo of shattered ceramics and shouted words.
I walked until the streets blurred, until headlights shimmered like stars in puddles. I walked because stopping meant feeling. And I couldn’t afford that. Not tonight.
I don’t know how long I wandered before the metal rails of the bridge came into view—tall, weather-worn, streaked black by decades of storms. My feet had brought me here without permission, without thought.
The wind picked up near the water, cutting through my soaked jacket, slicing into skin that already felt numb.
My feet dragged to a stop, and I moved to the railing, palms braced on the cold metal, rain dripping from my lashes. The wind whipped past my ears, drowning out the noise of the city behind me. Below, the river churned in slow, black ripples, reflecting fractured bits of streetlight and clouded sky.
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