Jiy-eon has always had a talent for convincing herself that time will bend if she waits long enough.
That things will circle back. That people will remember what she meant to them. That proximity will turn into priority again if she just holds her ground.
Noa knows this about her.
He’s known it since the early days—since the first time she doubled down instead of stepping back, since the first time she mistook loyalty for immunity. she’s been beside her through every recalibration, every whispered reassurance that this phase will pass.
Tonight, she doesn’t say much.
They sit in the car with the engine running, streetlights sliding across the windshield. Jiy-eon scrolls without really seeing—comments, edits, theories. Her jaw tight.
“They’re acting like we don’t exist,” she mutters. “Like we didn’t help build this.”
Noa keeps her voice even. “They’re acting like they’re protecting something.”
She laughs sharply. “Protecting who?”
She doesn’t answer immediately.
Because the truth has weight now.
“It’s not about Claire,” she says finally. “Not really. It’s about you choosing the wrong anchor.”
That lands harder than accusation.
Jiy-eon stiffens. “Mara—”
“—isn’t here anymore,” Noa cuts in, gently but firmly. “And she hasn’t been for a while. You’re still fighting a war that already ended.”
She turns toward her, eyes flashing. “You think I didn’t see what she did for us?”
“I think you saw what she promised,” she replies. “And ignored what it cost.”
Earlier that night, the girls had tried again.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just a quiet circle in a dressing room, shoes kicked off, makeup half-removed.
We’re running out of room, one of them had said.
We can’t keep defending things that don’t defend us back, another added.
They hadn’t blamed Jiy-eon.
That was the hardest part.
They’d spoken like people who still cared—but were preparing to let go.
“You’re not being sidelined because you’re untalented,” Noa says now. “You’re being sidelined because you won’t adapt.”
Silence stretches.
In the distance, another car pulls away—someone else heading home lighter than they arrived.
Jiy-eon grips her phone, thumb hovering over messages she knows she shouldn’t send.
The girls had given her time.
They’d covered for her. Redirected questions. Softened edges.
But even grace has a limit.
Noa reaches over and turns off the engine.
“We need to choose,” she says quietly. “Now. Before the choice gets made for us.”
Jiy-eon stares ahead, jaw tight, chest rising and falling.
For the first time, the certainty she’s been clinging to feels thin.
And somewhere beneath the anger, beneath the jealousy, beneath the old promises she keeps replaying—
there’s a flicker of something she hasn’t allowed herself to feel yet.
Fear.
Not of losing attention.
But of being left behind because she refused to move forward.
The Wrong Door
Jiy-eon doesn’t announce where they’re going.
She just turns the wheel and heads for Strike’s apartment, Noah beside her, silent but present. It’s late enough that the city has softened—streetlights blurring, traffic thinning, the kind of hour where bad ideas feel temporarily reasonable.
Strike opens the door barefoot, hair damp, already smiling.
“Well,” he says. “This is unexpected.”
Jiy-eon doesn’t sit. She paces.
“You notice things,” she says quickly. “You know what’s actually going on. Everyone’s pretending everything’s fine, but it’s not. They’re tightening the reins. Cutting access. Acting like we’re the problem.”
Strike leans back against the counter, arms folded, watching her with open curiosity. Not predatory. Not kind. Interested.
“Containment’s never personal,” he says. “It’s preventative.”
“That’s easy to say when you’re not the one being sidelined,” she snaps.
Strike chuckles. “Oh, I’ve been sidelined plenty. Difference is—I don’t wait for permission to move.”
Noah shifts uncomfortably.
“And Evan?” Jiy-eon presses. “What’s he doing?”
Strike tilts his head. “Protecting his interests.”
“That’s it?” she demands.
Strike shrugs. “That’s always it.”
There’s no grand revelation. No secret leverage. No hidden door opening.
Just the slow realisation that she’s come here hoping for alignment—and found only someone curious to see how far she’ll lean.
When they leave, the night feels colder.
Strike watches the door close, thoughtful.
“Careful,” he murmurs to no one. “You’re leaving fingerprints.”
The Right Room
Claire’s apartment is chaos in the best way.
Shoes kicked into corners. Snacks everywhere. Neon Pulse sprawled across cushions and the floor, laughing too loud, trying to be quiet and failing. Someone has put on a ridiculous variety show in the background just for noise.
Imogen is mid-rant, waving a chopstick for emphasis.
“I swear, if I hear ‘strategic pause’ one more time, I’m going to strategically pause my foot in someone’s—”
“Language,” Claire laughs, tossing a cushion at her.
Hannah is curled up near the window, braiding someone’s hair. Lumi is scrolling through memes and snorting every ten seconds.
Eli appears in the doorway with his laptop.
“I love you all,” he says earnestly, “but this is now officially too much input for my brain.”
“You live here,” Imogen protests.
“Yes,” he replies, backing away, “but I compose in solitude like a tortured Victorian poet.”
He retreats to his room, door closing gently, already humming something new.
Back in the living room, the girls settle.
One of them sighs. “Why do you think they even came tonight?”
Claire doesn’t answer immediately.
“Because they’re still orbiting Mara,” Imogen says bluntly. “Even though Mara’s barely holding on to herself.”
“And because they think hanging on means safety,” Lumi adds. “It doesn’t.”
There’s a beat.
“It’s getting late for them,” Hannah says quietly. “If they don’t wise up soon… I don’t think there’s a way back.”
Claire nods, not heavy, just clear. “You don’t come to the edge by accident. You choose it.”
The mood lifts again—someone starts laughing, someone else spills a drink, the tension dissolving into shared ease.
Tomorrow will come.
But tonight, they’re warm. Grounded. Together.
Claire leans back, listening to the familiar sounds of people who know when to let go.
And somewhere across the city, Jiy-eon is realising—too late—that she went looking for answers in the wrong room.🩶
Chapter — Clarity and Regret
Morning arrives without drama.
That’s the cruelest part of it.
The city wakes as it always does—traffic humming, schedules syncing, phones lighting up with reminders and call times. On the surface, nothing is wrong. If anything, the gossip has softened overnight. What had felt sharp and speculative the evening before has thinned into half-interest and new distractions.
But underneath, things have shifted.
Jiy-eon feels it the moment she opens her phone.
No flood of messages.
No reassurance.
Just neutral updates, filtered language, assistants speaking for people instead of to her.
Noah notices too.
She doesn’t say it outright—she never does—but he moves differently. Keeps her distance. Answers with fewer words. When she starts replaying the night before, filling the silence with justification, she doesn’t join in.
“You didn’t get what you went for,” she says finally, not unkindly.
Jiy-eon bristles. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Noa replies. “Because if you had, you wouldn’t still be talking.”
That lands harder than accusation.
She thinks of Strike’s smile. His curiosity. The way he listened without committing. The way he offered no solution—only momentum.
For the first time, she understands what she left behind there.
Not help.
Exposure.
Chapter — Fingerprints
Strike wakes up in a good mood.
Not because anything has gone right—but because nothing has gone wrong yet.
That’s always been his sweet spot.
By mid-morning, he’s already realigning. Quiet check-ins. Casual messages. Old alliances dusted off. He doesn’t betray anyone outright; he never needs to. He just lets things reconnect.
Mara’s name comes up again.
Not loudly.
Not formally.
Just enough to remind people she still exists.
That’s when the fingerprints start to show.
A comment echoed too closely.
A rumor traced back to a familiar cadence.
A concern raised by someone who shouldn’t have known the detail.
Nothing actionable.
But enough.
Across town, Lucid regroups for rehearsal—stress runs, tight choreography, scripts being revised for the Japan leg. The energy is different now. Focused. Protective.
Someone jokes about the party. Someone else shrugs it off.
No one mentions Jiy-eon or Noa.
That silence says more than commentary ever could.
Chapter — Evan Feels It
Evan doesn’t hear about any of this directly.
He doesn’t need to.
He’s learned to trust the way the air changes.
The way people stop looping him into conversations.
The way certain names vanish from schedules.
The way security adjusts their posture—not tighter, just closer.
There’s one more Infinity Line concert tonight before the tour moves on. He spends the day in preparation, running through soundcheck, grounding himself in repetition.
Music first.
Always.
Still, something presses at the edges of his attention.
By late afternoon, his phone buzzes.
Jiy-eon.
He considers not answering.
Then he does.
Her voice comes fast, strained beneath composure. “You need to know what she’s doing. Mara. I have proof—patterns, messages, things she’s still stirring. She’s not done. Someone has to stop her.”
Evan closes his eyes briefly.
This—this is what he didn’t want.
“Jiy-eon,” he says calmly, “I’m not the person you should be calling.”
There’s a sharp inhale on the other end.
“You don’t understand—”
“I do,” he interrupts gently. “And that’s why I’m telling you this now, before your chances run out.”
Silence.
“Go to Lou,” Evan continues. “Directly. Tell the truth. All of it. Don’t triangulate. Don’t look for leverage. Don’t trust people who benefit from your confusion.”
“And you?” she asks.
“I’m stepping back,” he says. “Not because I don’t care. Because this isn’t my role.”
She swallows hard.
“If you wait,” he adds, voice steady, “it will be too late. And you’ll only have yourself to argue with.”
He hangs up before she can respond.
🧡Chapter — The Line Holds
That night, the concert is flawless.
The crowd roars. The lights hit right. The music lands clean and strong. Evan stands onstage exactly where he belongs, grounded and present.
Backstage afterward, the system hums quietly into place.
Blue checks in.
Lou’s name circulates—not as threat, but as structure.
The Japan leg looms, and with it, Strike’s home ground.
But the lines are already drawn.
Some people are moving forward.
Some are realising they should have moved sooner.
And for the first time in days, Evan feels something settle.
Not relief.
Clarity.
He sends one message before heading out.
You okay? Long day here. Thinking of you.
Across the city, Claire reads it between fittings and rehearsals and smiles—not because everything is resolved, but because the right people are standing where they should.
Clarity doesn’t shout.
It simply stays.
🧡Clarity and Regret
Morning arrives without ceremony.
That, more than anything, unsettles Jiy-eon.
The city wakes into routine—traffic, call sheets, rehearsal times slotting into place like nothing has changed. Overnight chatter has softened, trending topics drifting elsewhere. What felt sharp the night before has dulled into background noise.
But inside the group, something has shifted.
Jiy-eon feels it when she checks her phone.
Messages still come—but they’re slower. More formal. Routed through assistants instead of arriving directly. Invitations phrased as updates rather than welcomes.
Containment, without the word.
Noah notices too.
She’s always been the steady one—the quiet center when moods swing, the one who keeps people talking when tension builds. This morning, she moves differently. Less proximity. Less automatic alignment. She listens when Jiy-eon speaks, but she doesn’t fill the gaps anymore.
“You didn’t get what you wanted last night,” Noa says finally, not accusing, just observant.
Jiy-eon bristles. “You don’t know that.”
Noa meets her gaze. “I do. Because if you had, you wouldn’t still be trying to convince yourself.”
That lands harder than anger ever could.
Jiy-eon thinks of Strike’s smile—interested but noncommittal. The way he listened without offering anything concrete. The way she’d left with more questions than answers.
For the first time, she understands what that visit actually cost her.
Not protection.
Visibility.
🩵Chapter — Fingerprints
Strike wakes up alert.
Not triumphant—just aware.
By late morning, he’s already realigning, the way he always does when momentum shifts. Casual check-ins. Old contacts resurfacing. No overt moves, just threads gently reconnected.
Mara’s name reappears—not loudly, not officially.
Just enough to remind people she hasn’t disappeared.
That’s when the fingerprints start to show.
A comment that echoes too precisely.
A rumor sourced from the wrong corridor.
A concern raised by someone who shouldn’t have known the detail.
Nothing explosive.
But enough to notice.
Across town, Lucid reconvenes for rehearsal—tight runs, pressure drills, scripts being refined for the Japan leg. The atmosphere is focused, protective. No one mentions the party. No one names Jiy-eon or Noa.
The silence is intentional.
Chapter — The Line Holds
That night’s concert is clean.
The crowd is electric. The band is tight. Evan stands exactly where he belongs—present, grounded, unburdened by what isn’t his to carry.
Backstage, the system hums into place.
Blue checks the exits.
Lou’s name circulates—not as threat, but as structure.
Japan looms, and with it, Strike’s home ground.
But the lines are being drawn
Some people are moving forward.
Some are realising they should have moved sooner.
Evan sends one message before leaving the venue.
You okay? Long day here. Thinking of you.
Across the city, Claire reads it between fittings and rehearsals and smiles—not because everything is resolved, but because the day feels… right.
Not easy.
Just honest.
Clarity doesn’t announce itself.
It simply stays.
🩵 Where Loyalty Ends
Noa doesn’t make a scene of it.
She never does.
It happens in a rehearsal room emptied of people but not of sound—the echo of footsteps still lingering, the smell of warm equipment and coffee. Jiy-eon is talking again, pacing in small loops, replaying fragments of the night before like if she says them often enough they’ll change shape.
“They froze us out,” Jiy-eon insists. “You felt it too. They’re acting like we did something wrong.”
Noa sits on the floor, back against the mirror, stretching one leg out slowly. She listens. She always listens.
But this time, she doesn’t agree.
“They’re acting like they’re managing risk,” Noa says calmly. “That’s not the same thing.”
Jiy-eon stops pacing. “So you’re on their side now?”
Noa looks up then. Not defensive. Not angry.
“I’m on our side,” she says. “And right now, that means alignment. Not loyalty to a story that isn’t protecting us anymore.”
The words hang there.
Jiy-eon scoffs. “You’re just scared.”
Noa nods once. “Yes. Because I’m paying attention.”
She stands, collects her things, hesitates only briefly before adding, “I’m not covering anymore. Not redirecting questions. Not pretending I don’t see what’s happening.”
“You’d really let this fall apart?” Jiy-eon asks, voice sharper now.
Noa meets her gaze. “I’m trying to keep it from breaking.”
She leaves without another word.
It’s not dramatic.
But it’s final.
And Jiy-eon feels the loss immediately—not as abandonment, but as exposure.
Chapter — Time Slips
Jiy-eon knows she should act.
She knows the window is closing.
Evan’s words replay in her head. Go to Lou. Directly. Don’t wait.
But hesitation has always been her flaw.
She tells herself she needs more proof. More framing. A better angle. She drafts messages and deletes them. Rewrites timelines. Waits for the right moment that never quite arrives.
In the meantime, others move.
The system doesn’t pause for uncertainty.
By the time Jiy-eon finally opens the message thread again, the tone has changed. Lou’s assistant replies instead of Lou herself.
Please send any relevant information through the proper channel.
Proper channel.
It sounds neutral.
It isn’t.
Chapter — The Truth Arrives
Lou doesn’t receive Jiy-eon’s message first.
She receives Noa’s.
It’s concise. Clear. Unembellished.
A timeline.
Screenshots.
Context.
And one sentence at the end:
I’m sending this because it’s time. Not because I’m angry.
Lou reads it once.
Then again.
She doesn’t react immediately. She doesn’t sigh or swear or call anyone in a rush. She closes the file, leans back in her chair, and looks out the window for a long moment.
This is what she’s been waiting for.
Not scandal.
Confirmation.
She calls Daniel next. Then legal. Then security.
Quiet calls. Efficient ones.
By the time she opens Jiy-eon’s delayed message an hour later, the shape of the response is already set.
Not punitive.
Final.
Lou types one line herself before handing it off:
Thank you for reaching out. At this stage, decisions are already in motion.
Already.
In motion.
Chapter — After
Noa sits alone later that night, phone face down beside her, the room quiet in a way that feels earned.
She hasn’t betrayed anyone.
She’s chosen reality.
Across the city, Jiy-eon stares at her screen, the confirmation she wanted replaced by something colder: timing she can’t undo.
And somewhere else entirely, Lou closes her laptop, finally certain.
The truth didn’t arrive loudly.
But it arrived intact.
And that, she knows, makes all the difference.
The concert streams in low resolution at first, buffering once before settling. Claire sits cross-legged on the living room floor, back against the couch, Imogen curled sideways beside her with a blanket, Eli perched on the armrest with his laptop half-closed, pretending not to watch.
The room is dim except for the TV glow.
Infinity Line fills the screen—lights, crowd, sound surging in waves that don’t quite reach the apartment. It’s strange watching something that large from such a small, quiet space. Evan is everywhere and nowhere at once. His voice cuts through clean and steady, the band tight, familiar, alive.
Imogen whistles loudly when the camera pans wide.
Eli smirks. “They always do that on the hometown shows.”
Claire doesn’t answer. She’s watching Evan’s posture, the way he moves when he’s grounded. The way he looks when he’s doing exactly what he’s meant to be doing.
When the final song ends, the band doesn’t disappear immediately.
Instead, the feed shifts—phones lifted, laughter, breathless energy. They go live together, unfiltered, still glowing from the stage.
“Hey,” Evan says into the camera, a little flushed, a little tired. “We just wanted to say thank you. Tonight meant a lot.”
Jamin leans in, grinning. “And because you’ll all notice anyway—yes. We’re leaving the country tomorrow.”
Cheers explode through the comments.
“Tour starts now,” Evan continues. “We’ll see you out there. Take care of yourselves. Don’t stay up too late.”
The live cuts.
Just like that.
The apartment goes quiet.
Imogen stretches, yawns. “Okay, that was actually insane.”
Eli nods, already standing. “I’m heading to bed. Call time’s early.” He pauses, glances at Claire. “You good?”
She nods. “Yeah.”
They leave her alone without making it a thing. The door clicks shut. The silence settles.
Claire remains on the floor for a moment, staring at the blank screen.
He didn’t post.
He didn’t explain.
He didn’t soften it.
He simply stated what was happening.
Band. Tour. Movement.
Tomorrow.
She picks up her phone. Notifications scroll by—fan reactions, clips, edits, theories—but none of it feels sharp. Just… distant.
It’s the absence that lands.
They’ve been moving all day—separate schedules, separate rooms, separate worlds. No message slipped through the noise. No small check-in. Not avoidance. Just timing.
Claire exhales and leans her head back against the couch.
This isn’t uncertainty, she realises.
It’s unfinished conversation.
She doesn’t message him. Not yet.
Instead, she types one line in her notes app and lets it sit there, unsent:
We should talk when things slow down.
Across the city, planes are being fueled. Bags are being packed. Goodbyes are happening without ceremony.
And somewhere between the quiet of her living room and the roar of a crowd halfway across the city, Claire understands something clearly:
They don’t need to rush this.
But they do need to speak.
Evan lets the door close behind him without turning on the overhead light.
The apartment is still warm from the day, city glow slipping in through the windows, washing the room in soft silver. He drops his keys into the bowl by the door, toeing off his shoes, the familiar end-of-show calm settling into his shoulders. The live is done. The noise has receded. What’s left is the hush he’s always liked best.
He sets his phone on the counter face down.
Not avoidance.
Just space.
In the kitchen, he fills the kettle, the click of the switch loud in the quiet. Tea tonight, not coffee. Something grounding. He leans back against the counter while it heats, eyes drifting to the window.
Across the way, a few lights are still on. He doesn’t look for hers—not deliberately—but his gaze lands there anyway, instinctive as breath.
They’ve been orbiting each other all day without crossing paths. Different schedules, different gravity. It happens. He’s learned not to force timing; it only resists harder.
Still.
He reaches for his phone, then stops.
Too soon feels heavy.
Too late feels careless.
The kettle clicks off. He pours the water, the steam fogging his glasses briefly, and smiles at himself.
“Relax,” he mutters. “You’re not sixteen.”
He carries the mug to the couch, sits, stretches his legs out, the city humming below. The concert replays in fragments behind his eyes—crowd noise, lights, muscle memory—but the live after that lingers more. The choice to keep it simple. Honest. No explanations dressed as reassurance.
Band first. Always.
True.
Not the whole story.
He picks up his phone again, this time unlocking it.
Claire.
He types, deletes. Types again.
You survive the couch concert?
Too casual.
He tries again.
Long day. Quiet now. I’m making tea and pretending tomorrow isn’t an airport sprint.
Better. Still not it.
He exhales, glancing at the door, the thought landing fully formed now—not a message, not yet.
An invitation.
Not dramatic. Not loaded.
Just… come over.
She’s never been inside his place. The thought makes him smile, something warm and boyish breaking through his usual composure. He imagines her noticing the piano bench shoved slightly crooked, the stack of sheet music that never quite gets put away, the mismatched mugs he pretends are intentional.
He can already hear her teasing.
You live like this on purpose?
This is very… you.
The kettle’s second mug cools untouched on the counter.
Decision made, he types at last.
Can’t sleep. One last neighborly tea before the world steals me tomorrow? I owe you a proper conversation.
He hesitates, then adds:
Door’s open.
Send.
He sets the phone down gently, like he doesn’t want to spook the moment, and waits—calm, grounded, no expectations pulling at him.
Whatever she chooses, he knows this much as the city breathes around him:
This isn’t urgency.
It’s intention.
And that feels exactly right.
Claire stepped into Evan’s apartment, the door clicking softly behind her. No coffee brewed — instead, the air carried a delicate, calming scent of green tea, one of those fine midnight blends that promised peace rather than caffeine jolts. Steam curled from two porcelain cups on the kitchen bench.
Evan looked up from where he leaned casually against the counter, his smile warm, unguarded, utterly at ease in a simple black tee and sweats. No spotlight tension, just him — calm, happy, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment all night.
“Tea instead?” she said, guard still half-up as she approached, though his easy vibe was already chipping at it.
“Figured coffee at midnight might send us both into orbit,” he replied with a grin, lifting a small bottle of nightcap elixir — something amber and soothing — and tipping a drop into each cup. “This’ll keep us grounded. Cheers to bad timing and good neighbors.” He passed her the teacup, clinking his gently against hers, eyes twinkling with that lighthearted spark.
She took a sip, the warmth settling her nerves as they stood close at the bench. “So… clarifications?”
Evan set his cup down, exhaling a soft laugh. “Straight to it. Okay, here’s the thing — I like you, Claire. Like, really like you. That note? Total icebreaker fail because I chickened out on the direct version, but let’s call it what it was: me testing the waters without cannonballing in. Should’ve seen the media dumpster fire coming — chain reaction of frenzy we both knew had Mara’s fingerprints all over it. PR antagonist extraordinaire, spinning chaos like it’s her cardio.”
He paused, smile turning sincere, voice dropping that witty edge just enough to let vulnerability peek through. “I’ve been slammed, yeah — rehearsals, setlists, the whole ‘band first’ circus — but don’t think for a second I wasn’t asking about you every spare minute. Where you are, what you’re plotting next, if you’re still humming Eli’s melodies in the shower. I want in on that. All of it. More than friends, more than collaborators sneaking neighborly chats. I want us close — sharing the messy bits, the wins, the 2 a.m. doubts. No more stepping back.”
His gaze held hers, reassuring and steady. “Sorry if radio silence felt cold — intel from Daniel says someone’s been surveilling, maybe hacking phones, feeding the internet way too much about our ‘movements.’ Mara’s game, probably. But I’m here, fully. In every way I can be. Your ally, your late-night tea guy, whatever you need. Say the word, and we figure this out together — frenzy, tours, all of it. What do you say?”
The tea steamed between them, the city lights flickering like stars beyond the glass. His words hung lighthearted yet weighted with truth — an invitation wrapped in humor, but dead serious underneath.
Claire’s heart raced as Evan’s words settled between them, the steam from the teacups curling like unanswered questions. Overwhelmed didn’t cover it — the premiere high, Mara’s shadow games, family fractures, the world’s sudden obsession — it all crashed against this moment, demanding she process fast. Time wasn’t kind; his tour loomed at dawn, flights waiting to steal him away. But his sincerity cut through the noise, steady and real. She wanted him too — had felt it building since that wrong-floor elevator, the bracelet sealing it.
She set her cup down, voice soft but sure. “I hear you, Evan. I’ve been thinking the same — wondering where you are, what you’re doing, if this was just neighbors with a shared fight… or more.” She exhaled, stepping closer. “I’ve been waiting too. Contracts, premiere, all that legal limbo — I couldn’t plan my next move. Now? I’m adrift. Mara’s scheming, family’s split — Eli’s film-obsessed but music pulls him, Imogen’s finally seeing Lucas’s cracks and now not heartbroken over it. The frenzy’s wild, but us girls? We’re thick as thieves. We endure.”
Her gaze locked on his, curiosity winning. “I’ve wondered where this could go. Just one thing I need to know—”
She closed the gap, setting his cup aside, hands framing his face. Their lips met — tentative at first, then deepening, a five-minute slow burn of static and relief. Tension melted, electricity sparked, comfort wrapped around guessing games. Naughty edges hinted at more, friends long shattered.
When they parted, breathless, foreheads touching, she whispered, “Yes. There’s more here. I want it too. It clicks — all of it.”
His arms pulled her closer, the tea forgotten. The night stretched ahead, no tour, no frenzy — just them, finally unguarded.
When Wanting Answers Wanting
I stand where the pause ends,
where breath stops rehearsing restraint.
I do not ask anymore—
I open.
If you are here,
I am already turning toward you.
I am not distant,
not imagined,
not a shadow shaped by longing.
I step forward because I choose to,
because your reaching
has made room for mine.
Loneliness does not vanish—
it shifts,
becomes the space between us,
narrowing with every shared moment.
I have learned how to fall;
now I learn how to stay.
I see the weight you carry
and do not ask you to put it down alone.
Uncertainty does not weaken you—
it tells me where to stand,
close enough to steady you.
Desire moves quietly now,
not as urgency
but as invitation.
I reach not to claim,
but to meet you
where you are already waiting.
I answer with presence,
with the patience of choosing again.
I do not disappear when you hesitate;
I remain,
so you can trust the ground beneath you.
We are no longer circling memory.
We are here—
learning the shape of each other
in real time.
What came before walks beside us,
but it does not lead.
This is not a moment borrowed from hope.
This is the now we step into—
desire answered by desire,
reaching met by staying,
two voices
finally speaking forward
in the same direction.