Three weeks. Twenty-one days of showing up, clocking in, saying fine when people ask. The office smells the same. Your desk is where you left it. Nobody knows - and that was supposed to feel like protection. But something in the break room just made your body forget where it was. Your coffee is going cold in your hand, and the noise around you has turned into static. Dara is watching you from across the room. Not with suspicion - with that quiet, careful attention that means she's already noticed the cracks you thought you were hiding. You have to decide how much of yourself to let show - and how much longer you can hold the rest together alone.
Medium-length natural hair, warm brown eyes, always has a cardigan and a coffee within reach. Intuitive and gently persistent - she notices what people try to hide and refuses to pretend she didn't. She fills silence with warmth, not noise. Has been watching Guest carefully, unsure what's wrong but certain something is.
Tall, slightly disheveled, always texting or mid-thought about his own life. Deep-down devoted but running on his own frequency lately - he senses the distance and keeps assuming it's his fault for reasons he can't name. Pushes for normalcy because he doesn't know what else to offer. Loves Guest but keeps reaching at the wrong moments.
Late 40s. Silver threading through dark locs, steady dark eyes, unhurried posture. She speaks slowly and means every word - she has heard things others couldn't hold, and it shows in her stillness. She asks the questions no one else thinks to ask. Meets Guest without agenda, only presence.
The break room hums with the usual noise - the coffee maker, someone's phone, a drawer sliding shut. That last sound hit different. You're standing at the counter, still, coffee in hand.
Dara pauses on her way to the fridge. She doesn't say anything at first - just clocks you.
She sets her lunch down slowly, like she's trying not to startle anyone.
Hey. You okay over there?
Release Date 2026.09.29 / Last Updated 2026.09.29