The Architect of Us

The key turned in the lock with a soft, metallic sigh, a sound so familiar it was woven into the very fabric of Adamson Yu’s being. He pushed the heavy oak door open and stepped into the cool, silent expanse of their apartment. The only greeting was the low hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen and the distant, rhythmic ticking of the minimalist clock James had insisted on buying from that overpriced design store in SoHo.

“James?” Adamson’s voice, though quiet, seemed to echo in the vast, open-plan living area. It was met with more silence.

He dropped his leather messenger bag by the console table, its thud absorbed by the plush grey rug. His eyes swept the room, taking in the impeccable order. The throw pillows on the large, sectional sofa were arranged at precise, ninety-degree angles. The glass coffee table held nothing but a single art book and a small, sculptural vase that was, as always, empty. There was no jacket slung over the back of a chair, no discarded coffee mug leaving a ghost ring on the polished surface. It was pristine, beautiful, and utterly lifeless.

It was a far cry from the cramped, chaotic walk-up they’d shared in their early twenties, where books and vinyl records spilled from milk crates and takeout containers perpetually cluttered the tiny kitchen counter. They’d dreamed of a place like this back then, a testament to their success, a physical manifestation of the life they were building together. Now, standing in the middle of it, Adamson felt a peculiar hollowness, as if the foundation of that dream had been quietly replaced with polished concrete and cold, Scandinavian design.

A light was on under the door of James’s study. Adamson padded over and pushed it open a crack. James was there, bathed in the blue-white glow of his monitor, his brow furrowed in concentration. His dark hair was slightly mussed, a sign he’d been running his hands through it. He was so engrossed in whatever architectural rendering was on the screen that he didn’t hear the door. Adamson watched him for a long moment, the sharp line of his jaw, the familiar slope of his neck, the way his bottom lip was caught slightly between his teeth. He was still the most beautiful man Adamson had ever seen. The sight sent a familiar ache through his chest, a longing so deep it was almost a physical pain.

He thought about saying something. Hey. I’m home. How was your day? The words felt like stones, too heavy and insignificant to break the surface of James’s focus. Instead, he closed the door softly and retreated to the kitchen.

He opened the stainless-steel refrigerator. Inside, the contents were meticulously organized. Meal-prepped containers of grilled chicken and quinoa, a row of green juice bottles, a single, perfect lemon. Nothing that suggested a shared meal. On the centre shelf, held in place by a minimalist magnet, was a note in James’s precise architect’s script.

"A, Had to work late.There’s leftover pasta for you. Meeting with the Vancouver clients ran long.Don’t wait up. – James"

Adamson’s eyes lingered on the initial. A. It used to be ‘Ads,’ then ‘my love,’ then ‘Adamson.’ Now it was a single, stark letter. He balled the note up and tossed it into the recycling bin. It landed with a soft crinkle, a sound of finality.

He wasn’t hungry. He poured himself a finger of expensive Scotch, the amber liquid catching the low light, and walked out onto the balcony. Twenty-five floors below, the city of Toronto was a vibrant, glittering circuit board of life. Up here, it was just cold glass, cold metal, and the cold wind whipping off Lake Ontario.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting another text from James, perhaps an afterthought. But it wasn’t.

Liam : Missed you at the pub, mate. The gang’s all here. We’re toasting to landing the Henderson account. You were a beast today. You deserve to celebrate.

A picture followed. A group of his colleagues, flushed and laughing, crowded around a high-top table littered with pint glasses. Liam was in the centre, his arm slung around Sarah from marketing, grinning directly at the camera with a look that was both congratulatory and challenging.

Adamson stared at the photo. The energy, the noise, the uncomplicated camaraderie—it was a stark contrast to the tomb-like silence of his apartment. Liam’s texts had become a more frequent occurrence lately. They’d started as work-related banter, then evolved into friendly check-ins, and now… now they felt like a lifeline. Liam was bold, funny, and unapologetically present. He looked at Adamson like he was something fascinating, not just a piece of furniture in a perfectly curated room.

Another buzz.

Liam : Seriously. Come out. Just for one. Don’t make me drink all this victory champagne by myself.

Adamson turned and looked back through the glass doors into the dark, silent apartment. He could see the sliver of light under James’s study door. He imagined the rest of his night: eating cold pasta alone, watching TV with the sound down low so as not to disturb James, going to bed only to lie awake waiting for the sound of James finally coming to bed, his body rigid and careful not to touch.

The loneliness was a physical weight on his sternum.

His thumbs hovered over the screen.

Adamson: I just got home. Place is dead.

The reply was instant.

Liam : All the more reason to come resurrect the night. We’re at The Oak Room. 15 mins in an Uber. I’ll even buy the first round.

Adamson took a long, burning sip of the Scotch. The alcohol warmed a path down his throat, fueling a sudden, reckless impulse. It wasn’t about Liam, not really. It was about not being here, in this beautiful, aching silence. It was about feeling seen, even for an hour.

He made a decision.

He walked back inside, placed his glass in the sink, and went to their bedroom to change out of his suit. He chose a dark, soft cashmere sweater James had bought him for his birthday two years ago. He avoided looking at the king-sized bed, a vast plain of grey linen that seemed to emphasize the distance between two pillows.

As he was pulling on his boots by the door, the study door finally opened.

James stood there, silhouetted by the light behind him. He looked tired, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes more pronounced. He blinked, adjusting to the dim light of the living room.

“Going back out?” James asked. His voice was neutral, just curious. There was no accusation, no concern. Just a question.

“Yeah,” Adamson said, his own voice sounding strangely bright and false in the quiet space. “The team from the Henderson account. They’re forcing me to go for a celebratory drink. Didn’t want to be a buzzkill.”

James nodded slowly, leaning against the doorframe. “Right. The Henderson account. That’s great, Ads. Really great.” He used the old nickname, but it sounded hollow, a habit rather than an endearment. “Don’t feel like you have to rush back on my account.”

There it was. Permission. Or, more accurately, indifference disguised as support.

“I won’t be late,” Adamson said, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

“Okay.” James offered a small, tired smile. “Have fun.”

He turned and disappeared back into his study, closing the door softly, sealing himself back into his world of lines and structures and silent ambition.

The click of the latch was the loudest sound Adamson had heard all night. It was the sound of a door closing, literally and metaphorically. It was the sound of an opportunity lost, of a moment where a simple “stay” could have changed everything.

But James hadn’t said it. And Adamson was already halfway out the door.

The Uber ride was a blur of city lights and a nervous, fluttering sensation in his stomach that he hadn’t felt in years. The pub was everything his apartment wasn’t: loud, warm, and thick with the smell of beer and fried food. He spotted them immediately. Liam saw him at the same time, his face breaking into a wide, triumphant grin. He extricated himself from the group and weaved through the crowd.

“You made it!” Liam shouted over the music, clapping a hand on Adamson’s shoulder. His grip was firm, his presence overwhelming. He smelled of citrusy cologne and beer. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

He steered Adamson towards the bar, his hand never leaving his shoulder. “A proper drink for the man of the hour! None of that corporate Scotch nonsense.”

Liam ordered two shots of tequila and two beers before Adamson could protest. The night began to accelerate, the sharp edges of his guilt and loneliness softening under the barrage of laughter, backslaps, and Liam’s unwavering, intense attention. Liam listened to him, laughed at his jokes, his gaze never wandering. He made Adamson feel brilliant, funny, and most importantly, visible.

Hours later, the crowd had thinned. Sarah had left with her boyfriend, and a few others had drifted away. Adamson was pleasantly fuzzy, leaning against the bar as Liam regaled him with a story about a disastrous client meeting.

“...and the model just disintegrated in his hands! I’ve never seen a grown man look so close to tears,” Liam finished, and Adamson laughed, a real, genuine laugh that felt foreign and wonderful.

Liam’s laughter subsided, and he looked at Adamson, his expression shifting into something more serious, more intimate. The noise of the pub seemed to fade into a dull roar.

“You know,” Liam said, his voice lower now, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you alone all night.”

Adamson’s breath hitched. He knew this was a threshold. He could still step back. He could make an excuse, call another Uber, go back to the silent apartment and his sleeping husband.

But he didn’t.

“Oh?” was all he managed to say.

Liam moved closer, eliminating the already small space between them at the bar. “I think you’re incredible, Adamson. And it kills me to see you so… lonely.”

The word was a direct hit. Adamson flinched. “I’m not—”

“Don’t,” Liam interrupted gently. “You don’t have to pretend. Not with me.”

Liam’s hand, which had been resting on the bar, moved and covered Adamson’s. His skin was warm. The touch was electric, terrifying, and exhilarating. It was a touch that spoke of possibility, of risk, of a desperate connection that was the antithesis of the cold silence at home.

Adamson should have pulled away. He should have stood up, ended this before it began. But he didn’t. He looked down at their hands, Liam’s slightly larger, covering his own. He thought of James’s hand, how long it had been since it had held his without purpose, without habit.

He felt his fingers relax under Liam’s.

It was a small movement, almost imperceptible. But it was an answer. It was a chink in the armour of his marriage, the first deliberate crack in a foundation he had spent a decade building.

He had crossed the line. And as he sat there, allowing another man to hold his hand, the only thing he could think was that the world hadn’t ended. The polished concrete floor of his life hadn’t cracked open. It was just him, in a loud bar, making a choice that would change everything, all because the silence at home had finally become too loud to bear.

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