ep 2

NovaMuse was always quiet at night.

The kind of silence that echoed. The kind that whispered if you stayed too long.

It used to be peaceful. Now it just feels haunted.

Sera leans against the cold marble counter of the 22nd floor pantry, her coffee untouched. Outside the glass windows, the city glows in gold and red — alive, romantic, cruel.

Just like her.

She closes her eyes for a moment. Celeste's voice still lingers in her head like a melody she can’t delete.

> "But I didn’t say no either."

What did that even mean?

Was it an apology? An excuse? A warning?

Sera doesn’t know anymore.

---

Earlier that afternoon, after the meeting, she'd received a Slack notification:

> 📁 "Concept Deck v2 – S.Myles"

Sent by: C.Quinn

Message: "Include revised copy by EOD. Congratulations on the pitch clarity."

No emojis. No warmth. Just corporate politeness in Helvetica font.

She’d stared at it for a long time.

The last time Celeste congratulated her, it was whispered against bare skin, fingers laced behind her back.

Now?

It’s in a workspace thread, publicly visible. Strategically cold.

She wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or maybe cry.

But instead, she added the revisions, clicked resolve comment, and logged off like the professional she swore she’d be.

---

Her phone vibrates on the counter.

A message from Elena.

> Elena: [9:27 PM]

You okay? I saw your face in that Zoom call. You looked like someone just ran over your soul.

Seraphine exhales.

> Seraphine: [9:28 PM]

Still breathing. That counts, right?

> Elena: [9:29 PM]

I can text your ex a threat if you need.

Again.

> Seraphine: [9:29 PM]

She’s not my ex. She’s my boss.

…which is worse, somehow.

> Elena: [9:30 PM]

💀💀💀

Elena sends a voice note. Seraphine doesn’t listen to it. She already knows it’ll be dramatic and ridiculous and painfully caring — which she’s not sure she can handle tonight.

---

She scrolls through her Instagram before she realizes what she’s doing.

She’s already on Celeste’s profile.

Still private. Still minimal.

A black-and-white story from three hours ago is still up: a glass of red wine on a windowsill, city lights blurred in the background.

No caption.

Sera knows that view.

It’s the same angle from the old apartment. The one with the piano. The one with their dreams.

She stares at it too long.

And then — three dots appear at the bottom of her screen.

Celeste is online.

For a second, Sera thinks she’s about to get a message.

She doesn’t.

The dots disappear.

And that — that hurts worse than anything.

---

By the time she returns to her desk, it’s past 10.

There’s a sticky note left on her chair in sharp, familiar handwriting:

> "Don’t stay too late. You’ll miss the last train."

– C.

No emoji. No name. Just that initial.

Still so careful. Still so distant.

Sera stares at it. Then folds it once, twice, again, until it’s nothing but a square of silence she slips into her pocket.

She grabs her bag and leaves.

She doesn’t cry.

Not yet.

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