I sit in my office, leaning back in the heavy leather chair set behind my desk, its clean lines and polished finish a quiet statement of control. My hands are steepled, fingertips pressed together, my chin resting lightly against them.
My gaze drifts to the city beyond the glass—the endless stretch of buildings fading into the horizon, cars moving in slow, distant streams, people far below living lives that have nothing to do with mine.
Up here, in this glass box suspended between earth and sky, everything feels… detached. Like I'm watching a world I no longer belong to.
It has been a month.
A month since Moon left.
A month of routine. Of order. Of life slipping back into the shape it had before he arrived—before he disrupted everything with his smirks, his questions, his unbearable, infuriating presence.
The days fold into one another like pages in a book I've read too many times.
