The hotel room smelled like bleach and fake lemon. Sterile. Aoi stood at the window. Thirty-two floors up. The city was a grid of perfect, tiny lights. Silent.
Her suit jacket was draped over a chair. A black stain on beige fabric. Her heels were kicked off by the bed. Feet aching.
Another deal closed. Another win. Her father would be pleased. A text already glowed on her phone. Proud of you. Three words. A lifetime of training.
She poured a drink from the minibar. Whiskey. Expensive. It tasted like fire and nothing. She didn't feel the burn.
Successful. That was the word they used. Associate partner. Her own office. A view. A salary that was just a number in an app. She bought things. A coat she didn't need. Watches that felt heavy on her wrist. Art for blank white walls.
It meant nothing. It was gray. Everything was gray. The city out the window. The carpet. The inside of her head. A high-resolution, monotonous gray.
She reached into her purse. Not for her phone. For a small, zippered pocket. Inside, a plastic sleeve. Worn soft at the edges.
She pulled it out.
Half a photograph.
Her half. The tear was a coastline. She had his shoulder. The edge of his jaw. His stupid, attempted smile. The blue sky behind them.
She looked at it less now. The image was fading into the paper. Becoming a impression. A rumor of a moment.
Sometimes she'd hold it and feel nothing. A blank. Other times, like now, in a sterile room ten years gone, it would hit her. A dull thud in her chest. An absence so complete it had a shape. A weight.
She wasn't haunted by a person. Not really. She couldn't picture his face right. Not the man he'd be. She was haunted by a feeling. The feeling of that roof. The cold that felt alive. The shared smoke. The certainty. The terrifying, beautiful certainty that they were the only two real people in the world.
She'd never had that since. Not once.
She'd dated. Lawyers. Bankers. Men in good suits who talked about futures that sounded like spreadsheets. They took her to fine restaurants. They were appropriate. They never made her laugh until she cried. They never tasted like stolen cigarettes.
She was gray. Because she'd let the brightest color she'd ever known be taken. Boxed up. Sent away.
She'd chosen this. Law school. The path. She'd chosen the silence. The clean, quiet order. Over the messy, screaming truth of him.
It was the right choice. The smart choice. It was the choice that left her here. With a perfect view. And a heart full of dust.
She put the photo away. Zipped the pocket. A ritual.
She finished the whiskey. The ice had melted. Watery.
She looked at her reflection in the dark window. A well-dressed ghost. Successful. Empty.
She had everything. And she had nothing. Just a ghost of a flavor on her tongue. A memory of mint and ash that no expensive drink could ever touch.
Year ten.
The year of gray.
The year of understanding that some choices are cages.
The year she stopped waiting for a feeling to come back, and just lived in the quiet, monochrome world she'd built without it.