My alarm went off at 5:45 a.m. I was already wide awake, staring at the ceiling in Isaiah's living room, the soft creak of the ceiling fan above me the only thing filling the silence.
You're not invisible, Jade.
I could still see the handwriting. Feel the weight of the note like it was tucked behind my ribs instead of in my blazer pocket.
I didn't know what scared me more — that Mr. Pierce wrote it… or that he didn't.
*****
By 7:28, I was outside his office door, the building still mostly empty, the halls echoing with early morning chill. I knocked twice, barely.
"Come in," came his voice — level, unreadable, perfectly Mr. Pierce.
He sat behind his desk like a painting — sculpted in grey, sleeves rolled, tie loosened just enough to be noticed. He didn't look up as I entered.
"Sit."
I obeyed, coffee still warm in my hands, though I hadn't taken a single sip.
"You're early," he said.
"I didn't want to be late."
He glanced up — only for a second — then returned to the folder in front of him. "You flagged the Rossner discrepancy yesterday."
I blinked. "What?"
He tapped the file. "Call logs. Wrong timestamp. You caught it."
"I… didn't know it was important."
"That's exactly why it is."
My heart thumped. I wasn't used to praise. Not like that. Not from him.
"You see things," he said. "Even when no one's looking. Even when no one asks you to."
The room felt smaller suddenly. The air? Denser.
And then, before I could stop myself: "Was it you?"
His brow lifted slightly.
"The note," I clarified. "You're not invisible, Jade. That's what it said. In my pocket. Yesterday."
He didn't answer immediately. Just leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin.
"I don't leave notes," he said. Calm. Crisp.
"But you know who did."
He didn't confirm. He didn't deny. That silence was its own kind of answer.
The longer I sat there, the more I couldn't breathe.
"Why am I really here?" I asked.
He met my eyes — head-on this time.
"Because I see the way you try to disappear. And I want to know why."
That broke something in me.
I swallowed. Hard. My throat thick.
"I don't try to disappear," I lied.
"Yes, you do."
I looked down. "Grief makes everything quieter," I said. "Even you. Even me."
He didn't speak. Just waited.
"My parents died a year ago," I whispered. "Everyone thought I'd fall apart. Maybe I did. I kept telling myself I was fine, that I'd moved on, but the truth is… I haven't. I don't think I know how."
The silence between us stretched like glass. Thin. Shimmering. Waiting to shatter.
"Do you want to?" he asked.
I looked up.
He wasn't being cruel. He was being honest. Like he didn't have time for anything else.
"I want to stop pretending," I admitted. "I want to feel like I'm not some… shadow. Just moving through people's lives. I want—"
"To be seen."
I nodded.
He stood slowly, walked to the window. The skyline behind him burned gold and navy as the sun dipped.
"I know what grief does," he said, voice low. "It empties you until the silence feels safer than people. Until you don't want to be seen because it means being known. And that means being touched."
His back was still to me. But his voice…
It hit places I didn't think he'd reach.
"Have you ever lost someone?" I asked.
He didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
⸻
Later, after a long day of pretending I wasn't shaken, I returned to his office. The building had gone quiet. Only a few lights remained on. Everything felt slower. Thicker. Like the air between words had changed.
I knocked once. He didn't say come in this time. Just opened the door himself.
No tie now. Shirt unbuttoned at the throat. Hair slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hand through it.
The change made my chest tighten.
"Sit," he said again. But it was different this time. Softer. Closer.
I did.
He handed me a printed copy of the draft I'd written for the Rossner case.
"You missed two things," he said.
I bit back the anxiety crawling up my throat. "What?"
"Typos. Everything else is solid."
That shouldn't have felt like validation, but it did. I almost smiled. Almost.
He sat on the edge of his desk now, not behind it.
Too close. Just far enough.
"Why law?" he asked.
"No one's ever asked me that."
"I'm not everyone."
I hesitated. "Because I wanted to fight for something. After everything… I didn't want to feel powerless again."
He nodded slowly. Like he understood more than I was saying.
"You're not powerless, Jade."
He said my name like it meant something.
Like it wasn't just a file on his desk.
We were too quiet for too long. The city lights blinked behind him, casting shadows across his cheekbones. There was something in his eyes I couldn't read — not hunger, not sympathy, but maybe… understanding.
Or maybe something more dangerous.
I stood, suddenly.
"This was productive," I said, trying to remember how to breathe.
He didn't stop me. Just followed me to the door.
But as I reached for the handle, he said quietly:
"Don't run from being seen."
I froze.
My fingers trembled against the cool metal.
"I'm not," I whispered.
I opened the door.
But I wasn't sure if I was lying anymore.