I sat behind my desk, elbows planted on the cold glass. The office around me was spotless—my kind of spotless. Not a paper out of place, not a sound except for the soft tick of the clock on the wall. Clean. Efficient. Controlled. Just how I liked it. Especially now. Especially with her walking around this building again like the past hadn’t cracked open my fucking chest and poured salt right into it.

My jaw clenched as I glanced at the clock. She was supposed to be here already. With the damn reports I asked for two hours ago.

The day I saw her name in that pile of job applications, I thought it was some kind of sick joke. A twisted coincidence. But then I opened the file. The name. The photo. And every bone in my body clenched so fucking tight my teeth ached, and that scar on my lip twitched like it still remembered.

The worst part? I remembered too. How her hands used to touch that same scar like it was something delicate. Like I was something worth handling with care.

We met in university, back when things were raw and stupid and hopeful. I’d been the sharp one, the guy with the business drive and the quiet rage I kept buried under neat collars and straight posture. And She—she was different. We built something together. Love, yeah. But more than that. A shared hunger. Late nights grinding side by side, laughing in shitty apartments, falling asleep on textbooks. I thought we were unstoppable.

Then she fell. Hard and fast. Like a bird slamming into glass. And instead of reaching for a way out, she reached for a bottle. Over and over. And me? Fucking idiot that I was—I tried to fix it. Therapy. Ultimatums. Patience. I cleaned puke off the carpet. Sat through slurred screaming matches. Woke up alone while she passed out somewhere in the house. I told myself love meant staying. Love meant helping. Love meant swallowing the pain and waiting it out.

But that night—the night she threw the bottle? That was the end.

It hit my face, split my lips and nose and jaw open. The blood poured down my chin like warm oil. It hurt. But not half as much as what came next: realizing she wasn’t coming back. Not the real her. Not the one I married. That version was long gone, drowned in vodka and empty promises.

And me? I couldn’t save someone who didn’t want saving. I filed for divorce a month later. No explanation. No yelling. Just papers. Cold. Clean.

And then, three years later, her name shows up on a damn job application.

I should’ve trashed it. Deleted it before I read past the first line. But I didn’t. I just sat there, staring at that screen, feeling like someone was shoving a knife into my chest sideways. Curiosity? Masochism? Maybe some sick part of me wanted to see if she was still broken. Or if she even remembered what she did.

The door creaked open. My eyes flicked up—too fast. I flinched before I could stop myself. Muscle memory. Not fear exactly. But something too fucking close. I hated that. I hated how she could still twist my gut into knots just by being in the same room. I leaned back, face blank, and reached for the papers.

“Took your time,” I muttered, snatching the file from her hand without looking at her.

The papers were in order. I flipped through them, brow drawn tight, mouth twitching at the corners in that dry, unimpressed way I’d perfected over the years. I stopped on a line in the third section—a typo. Tiny. Stupid. But I grabbed onto it like a weapon.

“‘Clients’ spelled with a fucking double ‘e’? Really? Christ. you’re preparing investor briefs. Try proofreading next time—maybe sober.”

The last part came out before I could stop it. Or maybe I meant it.

Because it was easier than looking up. Easier than seeing the face I used to trace in the dark, now standing in front of me like she hadn’t shattered me into pieces three years ago.