Nora was halfway through reviewing the quarterly forecast—same numbers, same colors, same faint sense that nothing would actually change—when her phone vibrated across the desk. Claire’s name lit the screen. She almost let it go to voicemail; calls during work hours usually meant small emergencies or larger gossip. But something made her pick up.

“Hey,” Nora said, keeping her voice low enough that the cubicle walls would muffle it.

“Hey yourself,” Claire replied, sounding brighter than usual. “You busy tonight?”

Nora glanced at the clock: 3:12 p.m. “Define busy.”

“Busy enough to say no to free drinks and people-watching?”

Nora leaned back in her chair. “You’re selling something.”

“Gallery opening. Downtown. My friend from design school curated it—small crowd, good wine, no one will ask you about your job. I need a plus-one who won’t spend the whole night checking her email.”

Nora considered the alternative: microwave dinner, couch, scrolling through apartment listings again. “What time?”

“Seven. Meet me at the corner of 12th and Maple. Wear something that doesn’t scream ‘I just left the office.’”

Nora huffed a small laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Perfect. See you then. And Nora?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t overthink it. Just show up.”

The line went quiet. Nora set the phone down and stared at the spreadsheet a moment longer before closing it. For once, the idea of leaving early didn’t feel like defeat.

She left the office at 5:45—earlier than she had in months—changed into a dark green sweater and black jeans in the restroom, and caught the train downtown. The gallery was tucked between a bookstore and a wine bar, all exposed brick and soft track lighting. Claire was already waiting outside, holding two paper cups of something warm.

“Hot cider,” Claire said, pressing one into Nora’s hand. “Pre-game. You look good. Less like a spreadsheet.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Inside, the space was half-full: clusters of people in muted colors, low conversation, the occasional laugh rising above the ambient jazz. Abstract paintings lined the walls—bold strokes of navy and rust that somehow felt both restless and calm. Nora found herself lingering in front of one that looked like a storm caught mid-breath.

Claire nudged her. “See? Not terrible.”

“Not terrible,” Nora agreed.
They drifted through the rooms, wine glasses in hand now, talking about nothing important: Claire’s latest PR disaster, the neighbor’s new dog that barked at shadows. Nora felt the knot between her shoulders loosen, just a little.

Then she turned to point out a particularly chaotic canvas—and froze.

Across the room, near the far wall, stood Miles.

Navy sweater, same as always. Notebook tucked under one arm. He was listening to someone—a woman in a red coat—nodding slowly, the way he used to nod at his own thoughts in the coffee shop window. The light caught the side of his face; he looked exactly the same and somehow different here, out of context, part of a crowd instead of apart from it.
Nora’s pulse gave a single, startled jump.

He hadn’t seen her yet.

Claire followed her gaze. “What?”

Nora opened her mouth, closed it. The room felt suddenly smaller, the jazz a little louder.

To be continued tomorrow…