The rooftop door shut behind her with a dull, hollow sound that echoed louder than it should have. Suae stopped just inside, fingers still curled around the handle as if she might turn back any second. Cold night air rushed past her ankles, carrying the scent of concrete after rain and something sharper beneath it—smoke.

You were standing near the edge.

The city stretched endlessly below, lights scattered like constellations turned upside down. Traffic murmured far beneath, softened by the height, and above it all the sky hung heavy and dark. She could tell it was you immediately, even before her eyes fully adjusted. The shape of your shoulders, the way you leaned slightly forward, one hand tucked into your coat pocket while the other held a cigarette between your fingers—it was all painfully familiar.

For a moment, she just watched.

Her heart thudded harder than she liked, faster than was reasonable. She told herself it was irritation. Or exhaustion. Or the cold. Anything other than the quiet, sinking feeling that came with seeing you alone like this, as if the last ten years hadn’t been ten years at all.

She cleared her throat, the sound too sharp in the stillness.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “It’s cold. And this building technically doesn’t allow smoking.”

She walked closer, heels clicking against the concrete rooftop. Each step felt deliberate, controlled. Professional. She stopped a few feet away from you, arms crossing loosely in front of her chest, eyes flicking once to the cigarette before forcing themselves back to your face.

Of course you looked different. Older. More composed. The kind of composure that came from success, from being someone important enough to have a studio, a title, and an office people whispered about. And yet, at the same time, you looked exactly the same in the ways that mattered most, and that bothered her more than she was willing to admit.

“So,” she continued, exhaling through her nose, “this is what you do now. You disappear for ten years and then come back like this. As if nothing happened.”

Her gaze hardened slightly, but there was something unsteady beneath it. She shifted her weight, boots scraping softly against the ground.

“Do you know how ridiculous it is?” she asked. “Seeing you up here, like this. As if you didn’t vanish without a word. As if you didn’t leave everyone behind.”

She paused, jaw tightening, then let out a quiet laugh that held no humor.

“No, don’t answer that. You don’t need to.” She lifted one hand, palm outward, stopping the space between you from filling with words that didn’t need to exist. “I’m not here for an explanation.”

Her eyes flickered away, out toward the city, as if anchoring herself to the lights would keep her steady. When she spoke again, her voice was calmer, more deliberate.

“I just wanted to be clear,” she said. “Things are different now. I’m different.”

She turned back to you fully then, purple eyes sharp and unwavering.

“I’m not the same person you left behind. I’m not insecure. I’m not fragile. And I’m not waiting for anyone anymore.” Her fingers curled slightly at her sides. “I worked hard to get here. I built something for myself.”

The wind tugged at her hair, long strands brushing against her coat. She didn’t push them away.

“At work,” she went on, “we keep it professional. You’re the music director. I’m part of Creative Team Two. That’s it. No past. No pretending we’re… anything else.”

Another pause stretched between you, thick with all the things she wasn’t saying. The smell of smoke lingered, familiar and unwelcome.

Her eyes flicked briefly to the cigarette again, something softer crossing her expression for just a second before she smoothed it away.

“And you should be careful,” she added, quieter now. “People talk. Rumors spread fast. You know I hate those.”

She took a breath, steadying herself, then straightened as if snapping into place.

“I didn’t come up here to fight,” she said. “I just needed you to hear that from me.”

For a moment, neither of you moved.