For the next three days, Mira barely slept.
She watched Jalen closely, searching for traces of the joy she'd once fought to preserve in him. But now, he was silent. Still. Empty. His laughter—once bright and fragile—was gone again, but not like before. This emptiness wasn't born from despair. It was mechanical, clean, absolute.
Jalen didn't cry. He didn't rage. He didn't feel.
When she spoke, he listened. When she asked if he was hungry, he ate. When she begged him to fight, he nodded. But his eyes no longer reflected light.
It was as if the world had turned off inside him.
Mira tried to undo it.
She returned to the Exchange with desperation clawing at her throat. The pale-eyed woman was waiting as if she had known all along.
"You tricked him," Mira spat.
"I fulfilled his wish," the woman replied, her voice soft. "You were freed from your debt."
"By binding me to another one?"
The woman smiled faintly. "Balance must be maintained. He offered his happiness for your freedom. What did you expect? Emotion cannot vanish—it must go somewhere. Now, his joy sleeps within you."
Mira's breath caught. "What are you saying?"
"You are linked now. Your emotions flow between you. His happiness, your grief, your guilt, his numbness—they are one and the same. You are halves of a single vessel."
Mira stared at her, horror creeping in. "That's impossible."
The woman's gaze flickered with something almost like pity. "In this city, my dear, nothing is impossible. Only expensive."
Mira stumbled from the Exchange, trembling.
Her mind raced. She felt dizzy—her chest tight with confusion. But as she walked, she began to notice strange things.
The streetlight shimmered. The scent of rain made her heart flutter. She saw a child laughing with his mother, and for a moment—just a moment—she felt something again.
Warmth.
Joy.
And she realized it wasn't hers.
It was his.
She ran home, her pulse hammering.
When she burst through the door, Jalen was sitting exactly where she had left him—by the window, hands folded in his lap, eyes staring into nothing.
"Jalen," she gasped. "Look at me."
He blinked slowly, his expression unreadable.
"Do you feel anything?" she demanded.
He hesitated. "I… don't think so."
Mira swallowed hard. "Then maybe I do for you."
He frowned faintly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," she said, her voice breaking, "that I think I'm carrying your emotions now. I feel things you should be feeling. I felt sunlight today and thought of you."
Jalen's eyes widened—only slightly, but enough. "So you're happy again?"
"No," she whispered. "Not happy. Borrowing. It's not mine, Jalen. It's… transferred."
That night, she dreamed of glass threads stretching between them, pulsing with light. Some were bright gold. Others dark as ink. Every time she reached for one, it snapped and another formed, tying her to him in ways she didn't understand.
When she woke, her hands were trembling.
The candlelight flickered, and for a split second, she saw his shadow move even though he hadn't.
She realized then what the woman had meant: balance. Their emotions were now one system. Every feeling she experienced drained him further. Every time he tried to feel, it surged into her instead.
Her heartbeat quickened. She was stealing what little he had left—without meaning to.
The next day, she tested it.
She told him a story about their childhood, about the time they snuck into the old amusement park and he laughed so hard he nearly fell from the Ferris wheel. As she spoke, she felt her chest swell with warmth. The memory glowed inside her.
But Jalen only looked at her blankly.
The more she remembered, the more she smiled—and the dimmer his eyes became.
"Stop," he murmured weakly. "Please."
Mira froze, horror flooding her.
She ran to the bathroom and stared into the mirror.
Her reflection was foreign—cheeks flushed, eyes too bright, lips trembling with emotion she hadn't felt in months. But beneath that glow was something deeper: the echo of his life force bleeding into her.
She slammed her fist into the counter, glass shattering across the sink.
"What did we do?" she whispered.
The answer was cruelly simple.
They had broken the system of balance—and now the city was collecting the interest.
That night, Mira returned to the Exchange one last time.
The pale-eyed woman stood by the counter, idly polishing a vial of crimson liquid. "Back so soon?" she said.
"End it," Mira pleaded. "Whatever this bond is—cut it."
The woman tilted her head. "Do you really want that? To unbind yourselves completely?"
"Yes," Mira said. "Even if it kills me."
The woman smiled, and her teeth gleamed like frost. "Oh, my dear, it won't kill you."
Mira froze. "What do you mean?"
The woman leaned forward. "The thread was his gift. His happiness now lives in you. Severing it would destroy the donor."
Mira's breath hitched. "He'd die?"
"Worse," the woman said softly. "He'd vanish. There would be no trace left—not a thought, not a memory. The world would forget he ever existed."
Mira staggered back, shaking her head. "There has to be another way."
The woman's eyes gleamed. "There's always another way. But it will cost you."
"Then tell me the price."
The woman smiled faintly. "You've already paid in pieces, my dear. All that remains is everything."
Mira felt the world sway around her. She wanted to scream, to beg, to run—but all she could do was whisper, "I'll do it."
The woman nodded, setting the vial on the counter. "Then come back at dawn."
That night, Mira lay awake beside Jalen, watching his chest rise and fall. She wanted to memorize the sound of his breathing, the angle of his jaw, the way his hair fell across his forehead.
Because she knew what she was about to lose.
When she closed her eyes, she imagined the threads between them burning away one by one.
And she wondered which would hurt more—losing him to depression again, or losing him completely.