Marcel.

My phone buzzes for what feels like the hundredth time today. I glance at the screen, noting yet another client's name—Harrison & Associates—and suppress the urge to throw the device across the room.

The afternoon sun streaming through my office window seems to mock the fact that I haven't left this chair in hours.

With a sigh, I swipe to answer, forcing a polite tone into my voice that I definitely don't feel.

"Yes, I understand," I say, pinching the bridge of my nose as the client rattles on about details we've already finalized three meetings and two dozen emails ago.

"I'll make sure the revisions are sent over first thing tomorrow." My free hand absently shuffles through the stack of papers on my desk.

The client, Mr. Harrison himself, continues his monologue about font choices and color schemes that we'd supposedly "never discussed before," though I have the email thread proving otherwise saved in a folder labeled "Patience Testing."

My desktop monitor flashes with new email notifications—four, five, six of them stacking up just in the time I've been on this call.

Each one probably contains its own little crisis waiting to explode.

"Of course, we can adjust the spacing," I hear myself say, the words feeling rehearsed.

My reflection in the darkened computer screen shows a stranger—someone with tight shoulders and tired eyes, a far cry from the enthusiastic professional.

The half-empty coffee cup at my elbow has long since gone cold, a sad ring of brown staining its inside where the liquid has slowly evaporated.

The call drags on, every second of it stretching like an eternity. The wall clock ticks with maddening precision, reminding me of all the other deadlines slipping away while I'm trapped in this conversation.

When the call finally ends, I drop the phone on my desk and rub my temples, feeling a stress headache creeping in.

The notification pops up on my screen: Meeting - 15 minutes.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to remember what Evan used to say about work stress management.

But that's a crisis for another time. Right now, I have emails to answer, a meeting to attend, and revisions to complete for Harrison, who will undoubtedly have more "never before discussed" changes tomorrow.

Welcome to another day in paradise.

But like clockwork, the memory of my father’s earlier call crashes into me.

“Whatever’s going on between you and Lori, don’t let it interfere with the project,” he’d said in that cold, measured tone he reserves for things he deems unworthy of his attention. “I don’t have time for drama.”

I had lied, of course.

What else could I do?

Told him everything was fine, that Lori and I were perfectly in sync. The words tasted bitter on my tongue, but I forced them out anyway.

He didn’t believe me. I could hear it in his clipped response.

“Don’t fuck this up, Marcel.”

By the time I ended that call, I was already emotionally drained. But the universe wasn’t done with me yet.

My mother called next. She didn’t even bother with pleasantries before launching into her usual lecture.

“Focus, Marcelina. Responsibility. You’ve worked too hard to let anything—or anyone—distract you now.”

Her words circled my mind for hours, sharp and unrelenting.

And through it all, my phone buzzed with Lori’s text. I saw it.

I wanted to reply. I meant to reply. But the hours slipped through my fingers, and I convinced myself I’d get to it later.

Now, as I leave the office and step into the cool evening air, regret is a dull ache in my chest.

I should’ve texted her back.

The thought of returning to my empty apartment feels unbearable. The walls will only echo my frustration, and my mind will replay the day’s failures on a relentless loop.

What I need is Lori.

The thought of her pulls me like gravity, grounding me and giving me a direction to move in. I want to be near her, to feel her warmth erase the coldness that clings to me after hours of tense lies.

The drive to her apartment feels automatic, the streets blurring past as I replay the sound of her laughter in my head. I don’t know what mood she’ll be in. Maybe annoyed that I didn’t reply.

Or still pissed from that fight.

Maybe she’ll tease me about being glued to my work. Whatever it is, I’ll take it.

I park in front of her building, the spare key she gave me cool and solid in my hand. It feels heavier than it should, like a reminder of something I haven’t fully earned.

Or I should give back.

When I open the door, her apartment greets me with its familiar scent, something uniquely hers.

And I feel the tension in my shoulders ease slightly.

But then I hear a voice.

A man’s voice!

My chest tightens instantly, my steps faltering as I strain to listen. It’s muffled, casual, laced with easy laughter.

Lori’s voice follows, soft and playful, and it twists something deep inside me.

I close the door quietly and set my bag down, trying to piece together what I’m hearing.

The laugh comes again, and it feels like a slap.

I don’t know how to feel.

Jealousy bubbles beneath the surface, sharp and irrational. I shake my head, trying to push it aside.

There’s probably an explanation. There has to be.

But the knot in my stomach only tightens as I walk farther inside.

The voices grow clearer as I approach her bedroom. My steps are slow, deliberate.

My mind races, cycling through possibilities I don’t want to consider.

I pause outside the bedroom door, my pulse pounding in my ears.

Her laugh floats through the crack in the door, and it’s like a dagger to my chest.

I reach for the handle, my fingers trembling slightly.

When I finally push the door open, the world tilts on its axis.

Julian, yes fuckin Julian is sprawled across Lori’s bed like he belongs there, his shirt unbuttoned and his lips curled into a casual smirk.

Lori is beside him, wearing a robe, her damp hair framing her face like she just stepped out of the shower.

They both turn to look at me, their expressions shifting from surprise to something unreadable.

And in that moment, the air is sucked from my lungs.