Atlas
Daniel appeared at the car window.
Atlas was sitting inside. Hadn't moved. Hours maybe. He didn't know.
He saw Daniel. His whole body flinched.
Reached for the door handle. Pulled. The door opened.
He tried to stand. His knees wouldn't hold him. Pins and needles ran up his calves. He waited. Gripped the door frame.
Looked at Daniel. Said nothing.
Daniel's eyes scanned his face. Then looked away. "Let's get in the other car."
Atlas nodded. Once.
He stepped out. His weight shifted wrong. He stumbled forward.
Daniel caught him. Arm under his shoulder. "I got you."
They walked to the other car. Atlas's steps were uneven. Heavy. He got in the back seat. Sank into the leather.
His fingers curled. Then opened. Then curled again. Like they couldn't decide. Couldn't stop.
He looked out the window. The sky was changing. Pink bleeding into orange. Dawn coming to Manhattan.
The city was still asleep. Empty streets. Dark windows. Streetlights still on.
He bit his lip. Tasted copper. Bit harder.
Rolled down the window. Sharp. Clean. His face stung. The wind bit at his skin. He leaned closer. Stuck his head out farther.
The buildings blurred past. Glass and steel. Higher. Taller. Reaching.
Daniel watched him in the rearview mirror. His eyes flicking up. Again. Again.
Atlas pulled his head back in. His face was numb now. Red. He leaned against the seat. The leather was cold.
Their eyes met in the mirror.
Daniel looked away. Back to the road.
Atlas went back to the window. Watched Midtown appear. The lights brighter here. Cabs starting to move. Early morning joggers. A dog walker with four leashes.
Everything's normal. Everything's still moving.
The car stopped. His building. Glass tower.
"Thanks," Atlas said. His voice came out wrong. Hoarse.
Daniel nodded. Didn't say anything.
Atlas got out. Walked to the entrance. The doorman nodded. Atlas didn't nod back.
He got to his door. 92nd floor.
His hand on the handle. The key in his other hand.
It was shaking.
Just open it.
He couldn't get the key in the lock. Tried. Missed. Tried again. The metal scraped against metal.
He dropped it. The sound echoed in the hallway.
He bent down. Picked it up. His fingers were clumsy. Numb.
Tried again. This time it slid in. Turned.
The door opened.
He stepped inside. The door closed behind him. He leaned against it. Put his full weight there.
The penthouse stretched out in front of him. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping around two walls. Manhattan spread out below. Central Park a dark rectangle in the distance. The sky lighter now. Gold and pink.
Light poured in. New. Clean. Morning sun.
Noah sat there. On that couch. Noah made coffee there. In that kitchen. Noah stood at that window and said the view made him dizzy. Noah—
He slid down. Sat on the floor. Back against the door. The hardwood was cold under him.
Looked around. Everything in its place. Clean. Perfect. Empty.
A glass on the counter. Noah's. From two days ago.
The throw blanket folded on the couch. Noah had used it. Wrapped himself in it while they watched something Atlas didn't remember.
He pressed harder against the door. Like he could push through it. Disappear.
"How?" His voice cracked. Echoed in the space.
He swallowed. Tried again.
"How did I—" He stopped. His throat closed.
Started again. "How did I let this happen?"
No answer. Just the hum of the heating system.
He stood. His legs felt wrong. Loose. Like the joints weren't connecting right.
Walked to the living room. To the bar cart. Got the whiskey. Macallan 18. The bottle was half empty. Got the cigarettes. The pack Noah hated.
"Those'll kill you," Noah had said.
"So will a lot of things," Atlas had replied.
He sat on the couch. Grey. Italian leather. Poured whiskey into a tumbler. No ice. Drank.
The burn felt good. Real. Something he could feel.
Poured again. Drank. Again. Again.
His face flushed. Heat spreading. He coughed. His throat raw.
Drank again.
Threw the empty glass. Hard. Across the room.
It hit the floor. Shattered. The sound was loud. Sharp. Pieces flying. Scattering. Catching the light.
He watched them spread across the hardwood. Watched the light refract off the edges. Tiny rainbows.
He stood. Walked to the window. Pressed his forehead against the glass. It was cold. He could see his breath fog it.
Looked down. Tried to see the street. The people. The cars.
Couldn't. Too high. Too far. Just other buildings. Other windows. Other lives.
A helicopter passed. The sound muffled through the glass.
The cigarette in his hand had burned down. Ash on his fingers. He hadn't smoked it. Just held it.
He lit another. Inhaled. Watched the smoke curl up toward the ceiling. Twenty-foot ceilings. The smoke disappeared before it got there.
Took off his jacket. Navy. Custom. He dropped it on the floor.
Unbuttoned his shirt. White. Wrinkled now. There was a stain. Whiskey maybe. Or tears. He didn't know.
Looked at his watch. The hands said 6:52.
When did morning happen?
He poured more whiskey. Sat on the couch. Leaned his head back. Looked up.
The skylight above showed grey now. The pink was gone. Just grey. Heavy. It might rain.
Noah's voice in his head. Clear. Like he was standing right there.
Let's break up.
You exhausted me.
I can't be myself around you.
Atlas took a breath. Deep. His chest expanded. His shoulders went rigid. Locked up.
His eyes stung. Went hot.
"No." He said it out loud. To the empty room. To himself. "Stop."
But water came anyway. Slow. Silent. Down his face. Into his collar.
He lit another cigarette. Drew smoke into his lungs. Held it. Let it out slow.
Watched it disappear.
Drank more whiskey. One glass. Two. Three. Back to back.
His foot started bouncing. Fast. Uncontrolled. He pressed it down. It kept going.
"Calm down," he said. His voice shook. "Nothing's over. It can't—" He stopped. "It can't be over."
Said it again. Quieter. "It can't be."
He stood. The room tilted. He steadied himself on the couch.
Walked upstairs. To the master bathroom. All marble. White Carrara. Imported from Italy.
Turned on the light. Looked in the mirror.
Felt Noah beside him. Like he was still there. Like if Atlas just turned his head—
A chill ran through him. Down his spine.
He turned. Fast. Nothing. Just the empty bathroom.
He walked back downstairs. To the guest bathroom. Smaller. Less windows.
Got in the shower. Turned on the cold water. Full blast.
It hit him like a slap. His breath stopped. Came back sharp.
He stood there. Didn't move. Just listened. Water hitting tile. Water hitting his skin. The drain gurgling.
Then Noah's words came back. Louder now.
You're cold.
You're cruel.
Liam.
The Instagram video.
Are you saying I cheated—
His knees buckled. He dropped. Hard. Hit the shower floor. His kneecaps cracked against tile.
His stomach turned. Convulsed.
He threw up. Nothing came. He hadn't eaten. Days now. Just whiskey burning back up. Bile. Acid.
He gasped. Choked. Spit.
Turned on the hot water. Scalding. His skin went red. Angry. He didn't turn it down. Just stayed there.
The water was too hot. It hurt. Good. Something real.
Water ran down his face. Or tears. He couldn't tell anymore.
"I lost him," he said. The words echoed off tile.
Then: "No." Louder. "No, I didn't."
Pause.
"It's not over."
He got out. Looked in the mirror. His eyes were swollen. Puffy. Red-rimmed.
Steam rose off his body. He watched it fade. Watched it disappear into nothing.
Gripped the counter. Hard. His fingers pressed into marble.
Looked at himself. "It's not over."
Said it again. Firmer. "It's not over."
Walked to the dressing room. Got sweatpants. Grey. Soft. A t-shirt. White. Plain.
Then he stopped.
In front of the closet. The one he'd cleared for Noah. The door was closed.
Inside were Noah's clothes. His spare shirts. His jacket. The sweater he always wore when he was cold. His cologne on the shelf.
Atlas stared at the door.
Open it.
He couldn't.
Turned around. Walked out.
Went to the living room. Glass everywhere. Covering the floor. Pieces scattered. Some big. Some tiny. Glittering in the light.
He bent down. Started picking them up. With his hands. Bare.
They cut him. Sharp edges slicing. His palm. His fingers. His thumb.
Blood welled up. Red. Bright. Dripped onto the floor.
He kept picking up pieces. Didn't stop. Threw them in the trash.
Looked at his hands when he was done. Cuts everywhere. Blood running between his fingers. Dripping.
He didn't wipe it off.
Lit a cigarette. The smoke stung the cuts.
His phone rang. Loud in the silence.
He looked at it. On the counter. Face up.
His assistant.
Didn't answer. Texted instead: cancel everything
She replied immediately: are you okay?
He didn't answer.
Scrolled through messages. Work emails. Meeting reminders. Texts from people he didn't care about.
Replied to the important ones. Short. Professional. Nothing personal.
Then he found it.
The Instagram video. From the party. Two nights ago. A lifetime ago.
He clicked it.
The video started. The camera moving through the crowd.
Then it landed on him.
Atlas. Standing with Mark. With Lisa. Close. Talking. Laughing.
The camera stayed on them. Five seconds. Six. Seven.
Lisa's hand on his arm. Mark's shoulder touching his.
"They're my friends," Atlas said. Out loud. To the empty room.
He scrolled to the comments.
wait are they together??
omg Lisa and Atlas would be so cute
new couple alert
he looks happy
His teeth ground together. Hard. He felt it in his skull.
He threw the phone. It hit the wall. Cracked. Fell to the floor.
He lay down on the couch. Stared at the ceiling. The skylight. Grey sky. Getting darker.
Noah's voice again. On loop.
I don't want you in my life.
You exhausted me.
I can't be with someone like that.
His breathing got short. Fast. Shallow. His chest hurt.
Everything played in his head. The fight. Every word. Every accusation. The way Noah looked at him. The way Noah's eyes went empty.
"I did everything I could," he said. His voice was loud. Angry. "I tried."
The room absorbed it. Gave nothing back.
He didn't know how long he lay there. Time disappeared.
His phone rang again.
Noah.
His hand shot out. Grabbed it. The screen was cracked but it still worked.
Alice.
His hand shook as he answered.
"Where are you?" Alice's voice was sharp. Worried.
Atlas said nothing. Couldn't find words.
"Atlas. Where are you?"
"I'm—" His voice cracked. Split. "I'm home."
"I'm coming over."
She hung up.
He set the phone down. Stared at the ceiling.
Time passed. He didn't track it.
Then the doorbell. Sharp. Insistent.
He heard it eventually. Sat up. His head pounded. He stood. The room spun.
Walked to the door. Slow. Each step heavy. Opened it.
Alice stood there. Blonde hair pulled back. Grey suit. Heels. She looked perfect. Put together.
She looked at him. Up. Down. Her eyes sharp. Taking everything in.
His swollen eyes. His bare feet. His bloody hands. His wrinkled clothes.
"What the hell happened to you?" she said.
He didn't answer. Just stepped aside.
She walked in. Heels clicking on hardwood. Stopped. Looked at the living room.
Glass on the floor. Blood. His jacket crumpled. Empty whiskey bottle. Cigarette ash everywhere.
Looked back at him. "Good thing you didn't show up to the board meeting looking like this."
She walked to the living room. He followed. Slow.
She sat in the chair. The grey one. Facing the couch.
Atlas sat on the couch. Across from her. Didn't look at her. Looked at the floor.
Silence.
"You gonna tell me what happened?" Alice asked. Her voice was softer now.
Atlas's fingers dug into the couch. Into the seam. Into the leather.
"What happened?" she asked again.
"It's over."
The words fell between them. Heavy.
Silence.
Alice watched him. Waiting.
"How?" she finally said.
Atlas told her. The last few days. The distance. The coldness. Noah pulling away. Him not knowing why. Then Liam. Then the party. Mark and Lisa. The video. The comments. What Noah said. Every word. Every accusation.
His voice was flat. Mechanical. Like he was reading a report.
Alice listened. Didn't interrupt. Didn't move.
When he finished, she leaned forward.
"You can't—" She stopped. Chose her words. "You can't run a relationship like you're controlling a merger. Like you're running the holding."
Atlas looked at her. Finally. "He brought up you and Sienna."
Alice's eyebrows went up. Just for a second. "Me and Sienna—" She stopped. "We have problems too. But we talk. We don't pretend everything's fine when it's not. We don't control each other."
Silence.
The heating kicked on. A low hum.
"What are you gonna do?" Alice asked.
Atlas stood. Walked to the window. Looked out. Manhattan spreading below.
Long pause.
"I don't know."
"Give it time," Alice said. "Give him time. And yourself. Don't—" She paused. "Don't go after him. Don't push. It'll make everything worse. Just let it breathe."
Atlas turned around. Looked at her. "What if I lose him?"
"If you don't want to lose him?" Alice's voice was even. Flat. "Face what you did wrong. Actually face it. Otherwise it's already over."
His shoulders pulled back. His spine straightened. Defense.
"His life doesn't revolve around you," Alice continued. "You have your own life. He has his. If you want him to only exist for you—" She shook her head. "You've lost your mind."
Atlas stared at her. "You're not making me feel better."
Alice smiled. Small. Sad. "You want me to lie?"
"No."
"Then calm down. Give it time. Things will—" She paused. "Things will work out or they won't. But you can't force it."
She stood. Smoothed her skirt. "I have a meeting. And I'm flying out this afternoon."
Atlas walked her to the door.
She stopped. Turned. Hugged him. He stood there. Stiff. Then slowly put his arms around her.
"Call if you need anything," she said. Pulled back. "Or come stay with us if you don't want to be alone."
Atlas almost smiled. "Don't be ridiculous."
She smiled back. Sad. "I'm serious."
She left.
The door closed. The sound echoed.
Atlas stood there. In the entryway. Alone.
He called his assistant. "Send someone to clean the apartment. Everything. Today."
"Of course. Are you—"
"Today."
"Yes, sir."
He hung up.
Went upstairs. To the bedroom. The bed was made. White sheets. Navy duvet. Six pillows.
He walked to Noah's side. Lay down there.
Noah's scent was still in the sheets. In the pillow. Faint but there. Clean. Cedar. Something else. Something that was just Noah.
He closed his eyes.
Time disappeared.
When he opened them again, it was dark. Almost dark.
He sat up. Looked at his watch. 6:47 PM.
I slept.
He got up. Went to the closet. Got a bag. Leather. Black.
Packed. Clothes for a few days. Jeans. Shirts. A suit. Just in case.
Walked out. Didn't look back at the bed.
Went down to the garage. Got in his car. Maserati. Black. Started it. The engine roared.
Drove to the marina. Chelsea Piers. His yacht was there. White.
He remembered coming here with Noah. The way Noah's face lit up when he saw it. The way he couldn't stop touching everything. The way he laughed when Atlas started the engine.
He shook his head. Got on board. Set his bag down.
Started the engine. The rumble vibrated through the deck.
Untied the lines. Pushed off.
Manhattan rose behind him. Lit up. Gold and white. Buildings reaching into the black sky.
He steered out. Into the harbor. Into the dark.
The city got smaller. Farther. The lights dimmed.
Eventually he cut the engine. Just drifted.
Nothing but stars above. Black water below. Waves hitting the hull. Gentle. Rhythmic.
He stood on the deck. Wind cold on his face. Salt spray in the air.
Watched the waves. The way they moved. The way they kept coming. Again. Again. Again.
"It's not over," he said. Out loud. To the water. To the sky. To nothing.
"It's not over."
The waves kept coming.
He said it again. Louder.
"It's not over."
The ocean didn't answer.