MONDAY MORNING — HOTEL ROOM
Noah woke to unfamiliar darkness.
Wrong ceiling. Wrong walls. Wrong smell—sterile hotel soap and recycled air.
Then it came back.
Fuck.
He rolled onto his side. The sheets were too crisp. Too cold. His body refused to settle into them, like they knew he didn't belong here.
Reached for his phone. Screen too bright. He squinted against it.
6:47 AM.
No messages.
He scrolled. Marcus. Jared. Sam. Work notification.
Nothing from Atlas.
Of course not.
He stared at the screen until it went dark. His reflection looked back—hollow, tired. A stranger's face.
It's over.
The thought sat in his chest like a stone. He threw off the covers. Couldn't lie there anymore. If he stayed still too long, he'd drown in it.
---
BATHROOM
The shower was scalding.
Noah stood under it. Let the water burn. Maybe if it hurt enough, he wouldn't feel the other thing—the emptiness that had followed him from Atlas's apartment.
Steam filled the space. He pressed his forehead against the tile—cool against his skin, slick with condensation. The contrast steadied him for a second.
His mind wouldn't stop replaying it.
"If we break up—"
"One day you'll get bored—"
The look in Atlas's eyes. Like Noah had already left.
The door closing.
He turned off the water. His hand slipped on the knob—shaking.
The mirror was fogged. He wiped it with his palm, streaks of clarity appearing in the white.
Stared.
Red eyes. Pale skin. Water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders.
Get it together.
Move. Keep moving. Don't think.
If he kept moving, maybe the panic wouldn't catch up.
---
OFFICE — 9:15 AM
Noah kept his head down. Walked fast. Eyes on the floor, shoulders tight, like if he made himself small enough no one would notice him.
His desk felt foreign. Like he'd been gone for weeks instead of days.
He opened his laptop. The startup sound too loud in the quiet morning.
Emails. Reports. Meeting requests.
He dove in. Let work swallow him whole.
Numbers. Projections. Deadlines.
Don't think about Sunday.
Don't think about—
His phone buzzed. He flinched.
Dad:My office. Now.
Great.
Noah stood. Straightened his tie—fingers fumbling the knot twice before it sat right. His ribs ached from holding his breath.
Put on the smile. The one that said everything was fine.
---
FATHER'S OFFICE
"Come in."
Noah pushed the door open. It was heavier than he remembered.
His father sat behind his desk. Reading glasses on. Papers spread everywhere, organized chaos that only made sense to him.
"Sit."
Noah sat. Spine straight. Hands in his lap where they couldn't betray him.
"How are the Denver projects?"
"On track. Sent you the updated timeline Friday."
"Good." His father looked up. Studied him over the rim of his glasses. The kind of look that dissected. "You look tired."
Noah's jaw clenched. He forced it to relax. "Went camping with friends. Late nights."
"Mmm." His father set down his pen—a careful, deliberate motion. "Lydia's coming Wednesday. She'll stay with you this week."
Noah's stomach dropped. "I'm not available this week."
His father's eyebrow raised. Not angry. Just curious in that cold, assessing way. "Why not?"
"Apartment hunting. Viewings today. Moving soon."
Silence. The clock on the wall ticked. Once. Twice. Three times.
"Problem?"
"No." Noah kept his voice even. Practiced. "Just time for a change."
His father leaned back. Watched him. Waiting for more. When Noah didn't give it, he nodded once. "Lydia can help. Your mother and I are flying to London for business Thursday."
"Fine."
"Take care of yourself, Noah."
Translation: Don't embarrass the family.
"Always do."
Noah left before his father could say more. Before the careful mask could crack.
---
CHELSEA
The apartment was the last viewing.
Noah almost cancelled. Too tired. Too done. His body felt like it was moving through water.
But the realtor was already there. Smiling. Eager. Her lipstick too bright.
"This one just came on the market. I think you'll love it."
She unlocked the door. The mechanism clicked.
Noah stepped inside.
And stopped.
Light everywhere.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Late afternoon sun pouring in. Warm. Golden. It hit his face and for a second, just a second, his lungs remembered how to work.
The space was open. Modern. Clean lines. Hardwood floors glowing honey-colored in the light.
"Two bedrooms. Two baths. Top floor. Corner unit."
Noah walked to the window—the park below, the city breathing.
So different from his old place.
So different from Atlas's apartment in the sky.
This felt… alive.
"I'll take it."
The realtor blinked. Her pen hovered over her clipboard. "You don't want to think about it?"
"No." Noah turned. Something settled in his stomach—not peace, but decision. "I want it. What do I need to sign?"
---
FURNITURE SHOPPING
Noah hadn't planned to buy furniture today.
But once he started, he couldn't stop.
A bed. Platform frame. Navy linen sheets—soft when he ran his hand over them in the store.
A couch. Oversized. Deep. The kind you could get lost in.
Coffee table. Side tables. Lamps.
Everything he'd never picked before.
His old apartment came furnished. Atlas's place was Atlas's taste.
This was his.
The sales associate followed him around, writing everything down, struggling to keep up.
"Delivery?"
"Tomorrow. I'll pay extra."
"Of course, Mr. Wellin."
Noah handed over his card. Didn't look at the total.
Watched the number climb.
Didn't care.
If he was starting over, he'd do it right.
---
OLD APARTMENT
Noah stood in the doorway.
The apartment looked smaller. Emptier. Like it knew he was leaving and had already let him go.
He called three companies.
"I need furniture removed. Everything. Tomorrow morning."
Within an hour, men came. Carried things out. The couch scraped against the doorframe. The table legs squeaked on the floor.
Couch. Table. Chair. Bed.
Until all that remained were his clothes and the echo of footsteps.
Noah packed them. Methodical. Organized. Folding each shirt with precise corners because if he focused on the task, he wouldn't think.
Some went in suitcases.
Others in boxes. Things he didn't want to see. The shirt Atlas had unbuttoned. The sweater that still smelled like his cologne.
He stood in the empty space—bare walls, bare floors, crime scene.
Grabbed his suitcase. The wheels caught on the threshold.
Closed the door behind him.
Didn't look back.
If he looked back, he might not leave.
---
HOTEL ROOM
Noah dropped his bag by the door. It landed with a heavy thud.
Collapsed on the bed. Springs creaked under his weight.
Pulled out his phone.
Called his mother. Three rings before she picked up.
"Noah! How are you?"
Her voice. Warm. Safe. The back of his throat burned.
"Good. Found an apartment today."
"Oh? Tell me everything."
He did. The windows. The light. The park. His voice sounded normal. Steady.
"It sounds beautiful. Much better than that old place."
"Yeah."
"Your father told me you're moving quickly."
"Just ready for something new."
A pause. He could hear her breathing. "Is everything alright, sweetheart?"
His windpipe felt crushed. He swallowed hard. "Yeah, Mom. Everything's fine."
"Lydia's coming Wednesday. She's excited to see you."
"Good. Me too."
"Want anything from London?"
"Just you and Dad to come back safe."
"We will. I love you."
"Love you too."
He hung up.
Stared at the ceiling. A crack ran through the plaster, branching like veins.
One day ago he was in Atlas's arms.
Now—
His phone sat next to him. Dark. Silent. Mocking.
He wanted to text Atlas.
Call him.
Just hear his voice. Just know he was real.
But it's over.
The thought made his chest cave in.
He ordered room service. Ate half of it. The pasta tasted like cardboard.
Turned on the TV. Some movie he wasn't watching. Explosions and dialogue that didn't register.
Fell asleep with the lights on. Too afraid of the dark. Too afraid of what he'd think about in it.
---
TUESDAY — NEW APARTMENT
The key felt strange in his hand. Too new. Too sharp.
Noah unlocked the door. The mechanism turned smooth.
Stepped inside.
And froze.
The apartment was… alive.
New furniture arranged. Bed made. Everything in place. They'd done it while he was gone, transformed the empty space into something that looked like a home.
He walked through slowly. Fingers trailing along the back of the couch.
Living room—couch positioned perfectly.
Kitchen—dishes in the cabinets, white and clean, waiting to be used.
Bedroom—his new bed, navy sheets crisp and clean, hospital corners.
The window again—park below, trees swaying, late afternoon light filtering through leaves, dappling the floor gold.
I didn't even notice this yesterday.
He was too numb. Too focused on moving. On doing. On not feeling.
Now he let himself look.
It was beautiful.
He unpacked. Hung clothes. Put shoes on the rack. Everything in its place.
Everything neat. Organized.
His.
But it felt hollow. Like a stage set waiting for someone to breathe life into it.
---
BATHROOM
Noah turned on the shower. Water hissed against tile.
Stripped.
Stepped under the spray.
And broke.
His legs gave out. He slid down the tile wall—back scraping against grout. Sat on the floor. Water pounded over him, too hot, turning his skin pink.
Tears mixed with water. He couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
His chest heaved. Couldn't get air. Couldn't breathe past the thing lodged in his sternum.
Atlas came to him. Unbidden. Unavoidable.
The way he looked at Noah across the kitchen island—like he was trying to memorize him.
The way his hands felt in Noah's hair—possessive and gentle at once.
The way his voice sounded when he said I love you—rough and real.
Noah couldn't breathe.
The bathroom filled with steam. Thick. Suffocating.
How long had he been sitting there?
He didn't know. Time blurred at the edges.
Finally, he stood. His legs shook. Turned off the water—hands clumsy on the knob.
Dried off. Mechanical. One limb at a time.
Pulled on sweats.
Went to the kitchen. Each step deliberate. Left foot. Right foot.
Made coffee with shaking hands. The mug rattled against the counter when he set it down.
His phone rang. The sound split the quiet.
Lydia
He answered. Cleared his throat first. "Hey."
"Are you moved in?"
"Yeah. Just finished."
"I'm coming over tonight! Can't wait to see it!"
His shoulders dropped an inch. Air came easier. "Yeah. Come."
"Send me the address!"
He did. Thumbs clumsy on the screen.
Looked at the time. 4:27 PM.
He wanted to call Atlas.
His thumb hovered over the name. The contact photo—Atlas looking away from the camera, profile sharp.
Then he locked his phone. Screen went black.
You're just like everyone else in his life.
Then he remembered.
This was his first heartbreak.
He laughed. It came out wrong—bitter and sharp.
"Pathetic."
---
KITCHEN
The cabinets were empty. White space waiting to be filled.
Right. Groceries.
Noah grabbed his wallet. Keys. Moved on autopilot.
Went to the corner market. Fluorescent lights too bright.
Wandered the aisles without thinking. Just reaching. Just putting things in the basket.
Bread. Eggs. Coffee. Milk. Pasta. Sauce. Vegetables. Fruit.
More than he needed.
By the time he got home, his arms ached. Plastic bags cut into his palms.
He unpacked. Filled the fridge. The pantry. The apartment started to look lived in.
Only then did he notice.
Most of it was food Atlas liked.
The pasta brand he preferred. The dark roast coffee. The sharp cheese.
Fuck.
Noah stood there—hand still on the refrigerator door, cold air pouring out.
He made another coffee. Didn't taste it.
Opened Instagram. Muscle memory.
Scrolled to Atlas's profile. No new posts. Same photos he'd looked at a hundred times.
Stared at the photos. That sharp jaw. Those dark eyes that never quite smiled in pictures.
"Stop it," he muttered.
Threw his phone on the couch. It bounced once.
---
5:40 PM
His phone rang.
Noah looked at the screen from across the room.
Atlas
His heart stopped.
Then started. Too fast. Rabbit-quick against his ribs.
He stared at it. Three rings. Four. His hand wouldn't move.
Cleared his throat. Lunged for it. Hit answer.
"Hello?" Too breathless. He heard it.
"Where are you?"
Atlas's voice.
Cold. Direct. No preamble.
Noah's hand tightened on the phone. Knuckles white. "My new apartment."
Silence. He could hear Atlas breathing.
Then: "Send me the address."
His lungs seized. "Okay."
Atlas hung up. No goodbye.
Noah sat there—phone in his shaking hand, screen still showing the call duration: 0:18.
What—
He sent the address. Fingers fumbling.
Then stood.
Looked down at his sweats. Old t-shirt. Hair still damp.
Fuck.
He ran to the bedroom. Changed—pulling off clothes, dropping them on the floor.
Dark jeans. White button-down. Fingers fumbling the buttons.
If we're breaking up, I'm doing it looking good.
He checked his reflection. Hair was a mess.
Fixed his hair. Ran product through it.
Splashed water on his face. Cold. Shocking.
His doorbell rang.
Thirty minutes. He drove that fast.
Noah's heart hammered. He could feel it in his throat. His wrists. His temples.
Each step felt weighted.
Opened it.
Atlas stood there.
Dark coat. Hands in pockets. Jaw tight—like he was holding everything in by force. Tendons stood out in his neck.
His eyes—
His eyes were hollow.
Fuck. It's over.